


You Are Tired (I Think)

by KMWells



Series: The Darcy Potter Series [4]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angry Sex, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Betrayal, Book 6: Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, Canonical Character Death, Character Driven Story, Comfort Sex, Daily Prophet, Darcy’s A Mess But We Love Her Anyway, Drinking to Cope, Explicit Language, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Grief/Mourning, Harry Potter Has a Sibling, Harry Potter has a sister, Hogwarts, Horcruxes, Idiots in Love, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Siblings, Second War with Voldemort, Self-Hatred, The Ministry of Magic (Harry Potter) is Terrible, War, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-26
Updated: 2019-11-03
Packaged: 2019-11-06 01:05:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 26
Words: 236,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17929841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KMWells/pseuds/KMWells
Summary: Lupin takes a mission at the request of Dumbledore as the defeat of Voldemort becomes more urgent, leaving Darcy feeling more alone at Hogwarts than ever. Heartbroken over the loss of her godfather and struggling with the idea that she may have some underlying darkness inside her, Darcy begins to confide in someone who makes her friends wary. With the war looming ever closer and the world more dangerous for Darcy and Harry than ever before, Darcy soon learns the hurt of betrayal and must face a choice that will change her life forever.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> You Are Tired (I Think) is a poem by E. E. Cummings. 
> 
> I’m super excited for this story (and for the next one, considering it’s the last) as this one definitely has one of my favorite scenes I’ve ever written! Thank you all for your feedback and praise and even criticism—I appreciate it all, and hope you enjoy!

You are tired,  
(I think)  
Of the always puzzle of living and doing;  
And so am I.

Come with me, then,  
And we'll leave it far and far away—  
(Only you and I, understand!)

You have played,  
(I think)  
And broke the toys you were fondest of,  
And are a little tired now;  
Tired of things that break, and—  
Just tired.  
So am I.

But I come with a dream in my eyes tonight,  
And knock with a rose at the hopeless gate of your heart—  
Open to me!  
For I will show you the places Nobody knows,  
And, if you like,  
The perfect places of Sleep.

Ah, come with me!  
I'll blow you that wonderful bubble, the moon,  
That floats forever and a day;  
I'll sing you the jacinth song  
Of the probable stars;  
I will attempt the unstartled steppes of dream,  
Until I find the Only Flower,  
Which shall keep (I think) your little heart  
While the moon comes out of the sea.

* * *

 “Oh God . . . oh God oh God oh God . . . make it stop, _please_ , make it _stop_ —”

The voice isn’t being spoken, it’s in her head, just like the voices from the other side of the veil. It isn’t coming from the black figure writhing on the ground, jaw working furiously in a soundless scream (are they screaming? who’s voice is it in her head? dad?). The voices are akin to a piercing sound far above normal volume, a thick needle stabbing deep into her temples and forehead. When had the pain in her arm started? Did it start with the tingles? When had her arm started tingling?

(when you started torturing him. why are you torturing him? he loves you he loves you he loves you.)

The dark shape before Darcy becomes clearer, the edges cleaner. What Darcy had thought was a wild tangle of a woman’s dark hair is a puddle of crimson blood. She lowers her arm (why couldn’t i do that before?) and slowly approaches. His back is to her, sandy brown hair saturated with the fresh blood now lapping at the toes of Darcy’s shoes. With a shaky hand, Darcy touches his shoulder, meaning to roll him over, to kiss his bloody lips, to apologize (i didn’t mean to, honest, i thought you were someone else. i didn’t mean to torture you, it just happened, i swear it) to the empty body stained red with blood. Darcy grips his shoulder beneath the fabric of his jacket, but the shoulder is all wrong, bony and sharp, giving her the impression of someone severely underfed. She rolls him onto his back, falling back onto her bum and breathing heavily.

(no no no no no)

A corpse, just like she remembers. Waxy skin that shines almost yellow in the lamp light (what happened to the overhead lights of the Atrium?), in the firelight. Cheeks sunken in, prominent cheekbones pressing hard at the flesh as if trying to push free. Lips cracked and dry and bleeding, shining red as if nothing more than lipstick.

Darcy drops her wand, holds her hands up, red, red, red, red. Blood on her hands, blood on Sirius, a tingling in her arm, voices screaming (what have you done? what did you do? look at what you’ve done! look at what you’ve done!) in her head—shut up, shut up, shut up. She closes her eyes tight, covering them with her sticky hands. The blood is warm on her face—is it her own? Sirius’?—and after a few seconds, everything quiets and she peeks through her fingers at the form in front of her.

The blood is gone. Darcy looks at her palms, white and clean and soft again. The blood on the floor is wiped clean (is there a floor? everything is so white), Sirius’ emaciated corpse replaced with Lupin (is he dead? oh God don’t let him be dead, don’t let it be me who killed him), looking asleep. His hair is combed back out of his eyes, the scars vanished from his cleanly shaven face. Darcy touches his chest. There’s a slow heartbeat beneath her palm—thump . . . thump . . . thump . . . she kisses him.

At once, he responds with fervor, his kisses messier and wetter than the ones she knows. Darcy closes her eyes as cold hands touch the sides of her face. Fingers threading through her hair, tangling in her hair, pulling her head back hard to kiss down her throat. Darcy’s heart is hammering, afraid to open her eyes and see Lupin’s face covered in blood.

“Stay still, little dove . . .”

Darcy’s eyes snap open. Lupin’s mouth is still on her throat, he couldn’t have spoken. It wasn’t his voice (get out of my head). Breathing heavier, Darcy allows her eyes to close again, feeling his teeth graze her pulse, his sharp canine teeth prodding at her soft skin, scraping, nipping, biting, piercing, _hurting_.

“Stop . . . oh God please stop . . .” Darcy cries (he’s going to tear my throat out, he’s going to kill me, he’s going to bite me). “Please . . . you’re hurting me . . . oh God oh God _please_ , Remus, it hurts so bad . . .”

“Stay still, little dove.” That voice again. Darcy panics. “It will only hurt for a minute.”

“No . . . please . . .” Darcy sobs. A chill runs down her spine as his sharp teeth tease her skin. Why can’t she move? Why can’t she push him off? “Please don’t, Remus . . . please . . .”

All at once, there is pain. Darcy closes her eyes and cries, trying to squirm but finding herself unable to move at all. His teeth are buried in her throat, longer than they had been a few seconds ago, warm blood flowing down her neck, her chest. She screams his name, begging for him to stop, but he doesn’t respond or even acknowledge that she’s making any noise at all.

“I didn’t mean to kill him . . . please, I didn’t mean to . . . please . . . oh God it hurts, it hurts, you’re hurting me . . .”

“Stay still, girl.”

His voice is harsher now. How can he speak so clearly with his teeth in her? Darcy opens her eyes again, trying to see through the tears. There is no Lupin, and her throat is fine—it doesn’t hurt anymore, nor can she feel the rush of blood down her front. She should have known Lupin couldn’t speak so harshly—not Lupin, not her Remus—for he’s gone, out of sight, and even though he’d been three seconds from ripping her throat out with his teeth, Darcy feels very vulnerable and afraid without him nearby.

She looks up into the greedy, wrinkled face that belongs to Nott. There isn’t a trace of his son in Nott’s face, but maybe it’s because his face looks slightly artificial in this light, like there are deliberate mistakes or glitches. Darcy tries to move, but she can’t, and she can already smell Nott’s foul breath and feel his foul erection rubbing against her inner thigh.

Darcy continues to cry. “Please don’t . . . _please_ . . .”

“Look what you’ve done . . .” he whispers in that gravelly voice of his. “Look what you’ve done . . . stay still for me, would you?”

“Please . . .”

“Darcy—”

“Don’t call me that—”

( _Darcy_!)

Darcy’s eyes snap open, stinging with the sweat that’s dripped into them. The desk lamp is on and Harry is bent over her, a hand on her arm, the color drained from his face. Her chest is soaked, sweat slipping down her cleavage all the way to her stomach. Darcy’s heart throbs quickly and very painfully in her chest, forcing her breath to come in short, sharp gasps as she tries to shake off the terror of her nightmare.

They look at each other for a minute, Darcy shaking violently as she adjusts to waking. “I’m sorry,” she rasps. Her throat is dry. She licks her lips. “How long have you been trying to wake me?”

“A few minutes,” Harry answers. “You scared Dudley. Petunia and Vernon are still trying to calm him down.”

“What was I doing?”

“Screaming,” he says uneasily. Harry releases her arm and Darcy’s hand jumps to her throat to feel for a bite. “You were screaming for Lupin, really screaming. You kept saying that it . . . it hurt.”

Darcy tries to control her breathing. She takes in deep breaths, exhales loudly. “What time is it?”

“Quarter to four.”

Darcy confirms this by glancing at the alarm clock on her nightstand. The second evening at Privet Drive and nightmares worse than she’s ever known. Is she supposed to endure an entire summer like this? Maybe she will write to Madam Pomfrey . . . maybe she could send back a small bottle of a Sleeping Draught.

“Darcy, are you sure you’re all right?” Harry gives her a sweeping, critical look. He reaches a hand out to touch her forehead, but she gently slaps it away.

She nods curtly. Her shoulder throbs and she lets out a soft moan, applying pressure to the scars with the palm of her right hand. “I’m all right. Just a bad dream.”

Harry’s bright green eyes follow her hand to her shoulder, lingering there for a moment. Darcy wipes her damp face, brushing away tears she hadn’t realized she’d been crying. “We could set up on the floor, like we used to—”

Darcy shakes her head, cutting him off quickly. “I’m not going back to sleep.” Something moves in the corner of her bedroom, a shadow ruffling softly atop the wardrobe. Panic floods her again, but it’s only Max. “I’m awake. Go back to sleep, Harry.”

He hesitates, but clearly decides against arguing with her. Slowly, Harry rises to his feet from the side of Darcy’s bed. “Okay.”

She waits until Harry’s out of the room before crying into her palms. Max immediately flies down to comfort her the best way he knows how, by rubbing his face and beak against her own face, nipping gently at her fingers when she reaches up to scratch underneath his beak. His talons wrap around her right arm, a pain that Darcy has gotten used to.

“Don’t ever leave me, Max,” she whispers, and he hoots quietly in reply as heavy footsteps make the floor creak outside her door. Vernon grumbles something and then the door to his bedroom closes loudly. “I’m going mad, aren’t I?”

_No, you’re just sad._

“If only that were the case.” Darcy smiles weakly, smoothing out the feathers of his wings with a very gently touch. “I’m even imagining you’re talking to me. That must be the first sign of madness.”

To her dismay, Max doesn’t answer, not even in her head.

“Is it my fault, Max?” She strokes him with the backs of her fingers and his talons tighten for a few seconds in response. He gives another hoot. “My fault that Sirius is dead?”

 _Yes_.

Darcy frowns. “That doesn’t sound like you,” she sighs, holding up her finger for Max to nip. “I must be mad.”

_You could write to Remus. Tell him about your nightmare._

“And tell him what?” Darcy asks, very aware that it’s not at all Max who’s planting such ideas in her head, but it makes her feel better to imagine she isn’t having an entire conversation with herself. “That I dreamt he tried to rip my throat out? Yes, I’m sure he’d be pleased with the subject matter.”

_You could omit that part._

“I could . . .” Darcy chews the inside of her cheek, tilting her head this way and that. Max imitates her, his black eyes hardly blinking as his head tilts left and then right and then left again. “I’d rather he not know about Nott, though.”

_Then omit that part, as well._

“That only leaves the part about Sirius, then. And it’s not like he doesn’t know how I feel about Sirius.” Darcy flexes her fingers and Max takes the hint, flapping his wings to hop off her forearm. She checks the underside, where tiny beads of blood are trickling from where the talons were. He perches instead in the frame of the open window. “Stop telling me to write to Remus.”

Max only stares at her, as if saying ‘ _I haven’t told you anything_ ’.

Darcy purses her lips, wondering if Vernon’s asleep yet so she can creep out back to smoke a cigarette. “You’re right, Max. You’re always right. I’ll write him later.”

* * *

Tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-tick.

It might just be her new favorite sound (though she can think of a few to rival it, but those sounds are filthy in nature and the spokes on a bicycle are not filthy in the slightest). She likes the way the summer breeze blows through her hair, like Lupin’s fingers threading through it. She likes to feel the warm sun against her already burnt face, peeling away in places instead of fading to a tan, the way Harry’s skin does. She likes waving to the neighbors, who give her things to put into the basket of her bicycle (tins of biscuits, a flower from a garden, tired-looking novels). They’re always pleasantly surprised to see her, impressed with her pretty dresses and well-mannered speak and forced smiles. Sometimes she walks her bicycle up the gravel pathway to Mrs. Figg’s house, where they have tea in the sitting room that smells like cat piss, but Darcy doesn’t quite mind. Mrs. Figg likes to talk and show her pictures, and Darcy curses herself for leaving her own photo albums at Hogwarts, but she’ll be damned if Vernon gets his grubby hands on her photographs again. These visits never last very long, as Darcy always has an excuse prepared to keep it brief.

She’d stay out all night if she could, riding around on her bicycle—the nights are certainly warm enough, and it’s not as if Aunt Petunia and Vernon are particularly worried about her staying out late, but after receiving a Ministry of Magic pamphlet a few days ago urging the public to not go out alone and to return home by evening, Darcy makes it a point to heed their recommendations. No one had specifically told her to stay in the house before she’d left, and Harry doesn’t seem mind one bit that Darcy begins to take rides around the neighborhood if it helps keep her happy, but she can’t help but to agree that being out alone at night probably isn’t the safest or smartest idea. Plus, the exercise does wonders for her sleep, and the days that she rides to the point of aching calves, she hardly dreams.

The day after Darcy had caught Dudley smoking outside in the back garden, he’d broken his old racing bike by bending the frame (Vernon couldn’t figure out how he’d managed to do it, but Darcy figures it simply couldn’t hold her cousin’s weight). After a few veiled threats made by Dudley, Vernon and Aunt Petunia had gone out to get him a new one for an early birthday present. Dudley had caught Darcy looking longingly at the broken bike, asked for a cigarette, and told her: “If you can fix it, you can have it.” So, she had—with magic, of course. Dudley had cowered a little ways away while she’d done it, but had seemed amazed and uncharacteristically intrigued upon seeing how quickly she’d been able to repair it.

It had been hard to hide her own gleeful smile when Aunt Petunia and Vernon had come home to find the old bicycle completely back to normal. Vernon’s eyes had bulged from their sockets when they landed on Darcy, a vein in his temple throbbing angrily, teeth gritted, all while Dudley had insisted he’d been able to fix the frame himself (something Darcy is sure both her aunt and uncle saw straight through given it would have been near impossible for him to have it fix within a few hours) and had given the bicycle to Darcy as a gift since she didn’t have one. Aunt Petunia had cried and thrown her arms around her son, sobbing about how wonderful Dudley was, how generous and kind.

The basket she’d gotten from Mrs. Figg, incidentally, who had found it in a closet long untouched. She’d helped Darcy attach it without magic and given her a half-eaten box of chocolates to take home with her. Darcy had made sure to stay for longer than usual that day just to express her gratitude.

Now, with the sun still high in the sky and plenty of hours to ride around before dark, Darcy puts her foot down to stop herself at the entrance to Mrs. and Mr. Tuttle’s, her favorite neighbors. It makes her incredibly sad to know they’ve lived close by for so long and she hasn’t ever been to see them. They had both been out front when Darcy rode past the day she’d first gotten the bicycle and had invited her to have a cup of coffee with them. Childless and wealthy, the Tuttles house is modest and well kept, a beautiful and manicured garden in the front and an even more beautiful backyard. Darcy enjoys sitting in the sunroom with them, lounging on their wicker furniture and keeping out of the sun.

Mr. Tuttle, born into a family of nine without two pennies to rub together, happens to be a retired Oxford professor of philosophy, and especially likes to debate the subject of religion with Darcy (while not a religious man himself, he’d insisted on the first day his wife invited Darcy inside), even though she stumbles through the conversations and can rarely keep up. His bald head always gleams in the warm lamplight and he always seems to be sweating slightly, casually mopping his forehead with a handkerchief when things get particularly heated. When Darcy tells him one day that she would have loved to sit in on one of his lectures, he flushes with pride, claiming he’d have loved to have her attend.

Mrs. Tuttle is an extraordinarily beautiful woman, Darcy thinks, ten years her husband’s junior. She’s a very warm woman, the type that Darcy imagines her own mother might have been had she lived, with artificially blonde hair that falls in bouncy curls to just above her breasts. Darcy tells her she could be a movie star, something that pleases her husband. Mrs. Tuttle had indulged Darcy in her entire family history, which interests Darcy very much. Her family had fled Austria during the Second World War to escape persecution and settled in Ireland, where Mrs. Tuttle’s grandfather resided (Darcy learns that he died in the same house he was born in). There are pictures that go along with the story—black and white photographs of Mrs. Tuttle’s parents, wearing a yellow star on their clothes in the pictures from when they lived in Austria—and Darcy is too embarrassed to inquire more about them. She’d learned of the Second World War in primary school, before Hogwarts, and had learned vague things about the persecution of Jewish families, but that isn’t something taught in magical school, she supposes.

Darcy knocks on the front door with the brass knocker, her bicycle propped against the siding. Mrs. Tuttle is the one to open the door. “Hi, Mrs. Tuttle. I finished the book.”

“Already?” she asks, taking the book back from Darcy. “Do you have somewhere to be?”

“No,” Darcy smiles weakly. “Nowhere to be today.”

“Come in, child, come in. We’ll have a cup of coffee, and you can tell me all about the book you’ve finished.”

That’s the day they ask about her family.

“What do your parents do, Darcy?” Mr. Tuttle asks kindly, stirring cream into his second cup of coffee. “We’d love to have you all for dinner one night. After all, I’m sure they’re wonderful people to raise a daughter so well-read.”

Darcy clears her throat, sitting up straighter on her chair. “My parents actually died when I was very little . . .” Instantly, the Tuttles’ faces look genuinely sorry. “Petunia Dursley is my aunt.”

“Oh, you’re Petunia’s girl!” Mrs. Tuttle exclaims, as if piecing something together. She and her husband exchange a look. Then, with her eyebrows knitted together, he asks, “Why has she been hiding you for so long, dear?”

Darcy shrugs. “I suppose she thinks I’m . . . fragile, or something.”

Mrs. Tuttle takes a fast liking to Darcy upon learning she’s a reader. One day, Mrs. Tuttle shows Darcy her office when she stops by to return a short book she’d been given. It’s Darcy’s favorite room in the world—colorful plants hang from the ceiling, and the walls are covered with all kinds of books, non-fiction and novels and poetry. The far side of the wall boasts an extravagant bay window overlooking the garden, and a desk is set just in front of it with an old-fashioned typewriter.

“You’re a writer?” Darcy asks, feeling very at home here in the office.

Mrs. Tuttle gives Darcy a warm smile that extends all the way up to her sparkling green eyes. “I am. I wrote a novel that did well in America and some short stories for a few magazines that circulate around Britain.” She walks up to the desk and reaches down to pull out bottom drawer. From within, she pulls out an expensive looking binder, holding it out for Darcy. “Now I’m working on a play. This is the first draft.”

Darcy blinks in surprise, her heart fluttering beneath the flowery cloth of her dress. Mrs. Tuttle is smiling at her, encouraging her to open it. Darcy does, slowly. It’s been written on the typewriter, an untitled play, the pages marked with red pen, the original script hardly legible with all the markings. “What is it about?”

“Do you enjoy plays, _Süsse_?” Mrs. Tuttle asks, and when Darcy nods, a fond expression crosses the older woman’s face. “It’s about a group of girls at a boarding school. A social commentary about the outdated expectations and standards set for young girls . . . well, it’s supposed to be when it’s finished, anyway.” She takes the binder back and puts it away, watching Darcy admire her typewriter. “An interesting thing, isn’t it? My husband insists we buy a computer . . . all of our friends have one now, but I much prefer the typewriter. I think it’s the sound of the keys. Have you ever used one?”

Darcy shakes her head, blushing.

“Go on, touch it. Type something. Here . . . let me get you some paper.”

Darcy blushes harder, sitting down at the desk and smoothing out the wrinkles in her dress. She places her fingers lightly on the keys, like she might a piano. She depresses the K key with her index finger when the paper is inserted in a complicated fashion. It makes a satisfying clacking sound, and Darcy types a string of random words at a slow place that makes Mrs. Tuttle grimace.

“It sounds wonderful, doesn’t it?” she asks Darcy. “It’s authentic and rather aesthetically pleasing. You don’t type much, do you?”

“Not really.”

“It’s easy once you do it everyday.”

Darcy agrees with her, not experienced enough to present an opposing argument.

“Now, come over here . . . I think you’ll like this book . . .”

Yet as much joy as the Tuttles bring her, it makes her sad. Mr. and Mrs. Tuttle are open with her and openly, vocally affection, something the Dursleys are not. It makes Darcy long for a family—a real family, the family she could have had with Sirius. They drink coffee with her while discussing books, let her play their piano and compliment her afterwards. She helps Mrs. Tuttle water the flowers around the house, watches old, black-and-white movies on the television (Mr. Tuttle is able to name every actor and recite near their entire filmography and career achievements), and shares their table for lunch.

Sometimes she imagines this might be how life would be for Darcy if Lily and James were still alive. Maybe they’d all sit together on the sofa instead of spread out through the living room. Maybe they’d invite all of their friends to watch the television . . . Gemma and Emily could come, and Carla if she was in town, and Hermione and Ron, and Lupin and Sirius would come. But then Darcy remembers that, if her parents were still alive, she might not have the same friends, and she and Lupin wouldn’t be . . . whatever he is to Darcy.

Sometimes she leaves the Tuttles house rather dejected afterwards.

The nights are the worst. Darcy tries hard not to sleep, not like her mind would let her if she didn’t try. She’s afraid of the nightmares, afraid of seeing Sirius’ face (which she always does when she finally passes out in bed of sheer exhaustion), afraid of seeing Harry writhing on the ground of the Ministry, of Lupin covered in blood, of Sirius covered in blood, of Nott’s hands working furiously at the buttons of her shirt and pants. She’s learned the _Muffliato_ spell rather well by using it constantly to keep Harry from hearing her thrash and cry in bed, talking in her sleep.

When she wakes in the mornings, she’s always sick to her stomach, and this particular morning is no different.

It’s a bright day. The sun is out with not a cloud in the sky, the perfect day for a bicycle ride, but maybe not today. Her legs hurt from all the cycling she’s been doing over the past week and a half. Her head hurts. The sun is a little too bright today, and the pain is like a hangover. She promised Mrs. Tuttle only yesterday that she would come by to read a slightly edited manuscript of her play, and while that prospect excites Darcy, she can’t bring herself to move. She wants to lay in bed all day. In fact, it’s not just her head and legs that are bothering her.

Without some sort of stimulation, physical or mental, Darcy resorts to thinking, which is a dangerous thing in itself. When she’s distracted, she’s a good imitation of her normal self. She’s able to smile, to speak plainly and calmly, able to enjoy the moment. But alone, with nothing to do but remember the events of the previous few weeks, she begins to ache.

Darcy’s entire body aches—it aches with longing, with sadness, with want, with desire, with guilt. It is so hard to feel so many things at once, to feel so _deeply_ so many things at once. One minute she is wracked with grief and sobbing into her pillow, and the next minute she wants to love and be loved and touch and be touched. One minute she has the overwhelming feeling of wanting to laugh—to feel the muscles in her face stretch into a genuine smile, a forgotten thing—and the next minute she wants to sleep, sleep for a thousand years until this lifetime passes her. It’s hard to settle on a feeling and stick with it, and so she instead let’s her emotions decide what she’s going to be feeling. The guilt is the worst. The knowledge that she’d led her godfather to his death haunts her, not just in her dreams, but during the day, as well. Like a fly buzzing around her all day, the sound burrowing into her brain, deep into her brain, deep enough that the sound reverberates in her head louder than anyone around her— _my fault, my fault, my fault, my fault_.

A few unread letters sit on her writing desk. She’d sent letters to both Emily and Lupin days ago, almost right after having the first really terrible nightmare. To Emily, Darcy had posed questions about the new Minister of Magic, Rufus Scrimgeour, a formidable looking man with graying hair and yellow eyes behind spectacles not unlike Mr. Weasley’s, but far too serious looking for his own good. Coming from the Head of the Auror office, Darcy hopes Emily can fill her in on the supposed disagreement between Scrimgeour and Dumbledore. Truthfully, Darcy’s more than happy to have finally seen Fudge sacked to general enthusiasm from the relatively quiet Wizarding population in Britain, but Darcy doesn’t want to place her trust in a new Minister who’s already arguing with Dumbledore. After all, Fudge had disagreed with the headmaster, and he’s gone now.

To Lupin, a less investigative letter. One filled with reassurances that she will be all right, that he needn’t worry too much, that of course she’ll write if things are bad. Darcy had refrained from begging him to fuck her into the ground, refrained from begging him to fuck her to the point where she’ll finally be able to feel something good. Instead, she had kept it short and to the point, letting him know that she’s here if he needs her and reminding him that she loves him in a hopefully very platonic way, although she wouldn’t be too upset if he took it differently. After all, it’s true—why shouldn’t she say it?

She hasn’t gotten around to opening their replies. Harry had asked if she’d like to use Hedwig in order to send back her response to someone so Max could keep her company, but Darcy had ignored his suggestion.

It’s not that she’s avoiding Harry, but she’s avoiding Harry. Darcy wants to talk about Sirius, to talk about this traumatic experience like Madam Pomfrey had urged her to in the last few days at Hogwarts, but it’s clear Harry doesn’t want to talk about it at all. He’s been tip-toeing around her ever since they came back to Privet Drive, seemingly afraid that she’s going to lash out on him (a reasonable fear, after she’d thoroughly abused him for accidentally spilling tea on a poetry book Lupin had given her, which she’d apologized for many times afterwards), which is why she finds it strange when Harry knocks on her door and enters a few minutes after she wakes.

“Morning,” he says, his voice still infected with sleep, his hair an undeniable mess. Darcy resists the urge to reach out and brush. In his hands is a piece of neatly folded parchment. “Have a letter if you’re interested.”

“From who?”

“Dumbledore.” Harry holds it out as Darcy sits up eagerly.

“Why has Dumbledore written you?” She reads it over quickly, her heart beating very fast as she does so. “He’s taking us to the Burrow? Oh—! On Friday? That’s two days from now! And he needs us to help with something? You reckon it’s Order business?” The idea of being included makes Darcy’s stomach swoop in an odd way.

Maybe Harry hears something shift in her voice. Or maybe he can read her mind. “Do you . . . not want to go?”

Darcy quickly rearranges her features into a blank expression. It’s not that she doesn’t want to go to the Burrow—she would absolutely love to be at the Burrow with friends again—but she can’t deny that the past week and a half at Privet Drive has probably been the best week and a half she’s ever had at Privet Drive, which Darcy has to admit is a bewildering thing in itself. Vernon seems to have taken Lupin’s threat very seriously, as he’s been avoiding Darcy as she’s been avoiding Harry. But she quite enjoys riding her bicycle around, something she surely won’t be able to do at the Burrow, and she’s grown rather fond of her visits at the Tuttles. The visits have kept her mind very occupied, and Darcy’s slightly afraid of what could happen when she’s presented with near unlimited free time to do nothing but lounge around and dwell on her thoughts.

There’s something freeing about this summer, and Darcy likes it. She could even get used to it. Aunt Petunia and Vernon don’t care what she does or how long she’s out or who she’s with, as long as she isn’t doing magic. They’ve stopped waking her early to make breakfast, Vernon doesn’t dare ask her to do anything around the house, and Aunt Petunia only asks her for help in the garden, or for small things like washing the dishes or setting the table for supper. Even Dudley has been kinder towards her for the small price of a cigarette every now and then that isn’t a terribly rolled one. And even better yet, Darcy’s skin isn’t tinged yellow or blue or black anymore. All of her bruises have healed up and Vernon hasn’t laid a finger on her to create new ones.

Harry walks over to Darcy’s desk, fingering the edges of her unopened letters. “Why haven’t you written him back? He’s asked me if you were all right, you know, a few days after you sent your first letter. You should have seen the bird that came to my window.”

“I meant to, I just . . . haven’t gotten around to it. When did this letter from Dumbledore come?”

“Last night. You got home late and I didn’t want to bother you.” He picks up an old copy of the _Prophet_. “You saw Fudge was sacked, then?”

Darcy hums in reply. “Give me Emily’s letter. I’ve asked her about Scrimgeour, actually.”

Harry grabs the neater looking envelope off her desk and hands it to her. “Definitely looks like he’d be better than Fudge.”

“He certainly seems capable,” Darcy agrees, glancing at the picture of Scrimgeour. “But him being already off to a bad start with Dumbledore makes me wary. What could they have argued about?”

“You reckon Emily knows?” Harry’s eyes flick greedily to the letter in her hands.

“Let’s find out, shall we?”

_Darcy,_

_I’m glad you asked about Scrimgeour. I’m quite pleased about the new appointment, and if there is one thing I can say for sure about him, it’s that he’s better than Fudge ever was._

_Scrimgeour is an able Auror. Tonks might know more—she’s talked to him in the past more than I have. He was the one who agreed to take me on as an Auror despite my Potions N.E.W.T. He definitely seems determined to combat Voldemort right away. Did you get those pamphlets? Nothing we didn’t figure already, anyway._

_Be on your guard around him, however. He knows politics just as well as magic, and he’s taken an interest in you. Wouldn’t recommend getting too friendly with him. He’s certainly not Ludo Bagman._

_I’ll see what Tonks knows. She might even have an idea of what he and Dumbledore quarreled about. In the meantime, be safe. Moody says you’re going to the Burrow soon. I’ll see you there in a little bit and we can talk more about it._

_Love,_

_Emily_

_P.S. Gemma says hello, she misses you, she loves you, and she’ll see you soon._

_P.S.S. What did you think about my recent article? Do you think I could have been meaner in regards to Umbridge? I certainly think so, but Cuffe wasn’t interested in what I’d call a ‘Rita Skeeter piece’._

Darcy reads the letter over again, biting on her lower lip. “Why would Scrimgeour be interested in me?”

“Who isn’t interested in you? It comes with being a Potter, doesn’t it?”

“I suppose. I can’t say I wouldn’t say no to hearing him apologize to me. How much do you want to bet he won’t have a single apology for either of us about the way the Ministry’s treated us?” Darcy sighs heavily. “All right. Out. I’ve got to get dressed. I’m going to the Tuttles’ house.”

But Harry doesn’t move. His eyes rove over her face, examining her closely as if he’s never seen her before. Darcy raises her eyes impatiently, waiting for him to speak. “Can I ask you something?”

“You’ve already done.”

Harry gives her an exasperated look. “I meant . . . have you ever . . . you would do well here, I think.”

“What, here at Privet Drive? No.”

“No, not here, I just—” Harry runs a hand through his hair. “Last summer, you and the garden party and Gavin, and . . . you love going to see the Tuttles and . . . haven’t you ever once thought about just turning your back on it?”

“On what?”

“Magic.”

“You think I want to live without magic?” Darcy smiles bitterly.

“No, not completely without, just . . . I mean, you do well with this kind of stuff.”

“Like I’m Aunt Petunia?” Darcy snaps, a flush creeping up her neck. Harry shakes his head, but her anger has already begun to boil. “You think I should turn my back on magic to live a life where I drink coffee and watch the television and philosophize with my rich husband?”

“That’s not what I said—”

“It’s what you meant—”

“I’m only saying that maybe you deserve better than Hogwarts.” Harry fidgets uncomfortably.

Darcy grinds her teeth. “You don’t want me to come back to Hogwarts?”

“I’d love for you to come back to Hogwarts, but—”

“But what, Harry? Just say it—”

“You heard the what the prophecy says,” he retorts, and what little color had been in his face is gone now. “You heard how it has to end, and I don’t want you to die because you were too stubborn to know when to quit.”

“So I’m supposed to just leave you for dead, then?” Darcy snaps, and Harry looks to have seen this coming. Her anger pulsates from her in waves, her heart beating a violent tattoo against her throat. “I don’t give a damn about the prophecy, but I will not turn my back on you because you think the end is nigh. I will not let Voldemort have you, do you understand me? I will not lose you the way I lost Sirius!”

The room is suddenly too quiet, the mention of Sirius bringing a weight down upon them, an oppressive silence. Harry looks away from her, looking pained at the mention of their godfather. Darcy closes her eyes and rakes her fingernails through her hair, overcome with guilt.

“I’m sorry,” she croaks, and she means it. “I’m just tired of everything being taken away from me. If that’s the way it has to be, then so be it. But I’m not going to let anyone take you away from me.”

Darcy remembers Bellatrix’s screams echoing throughout the Atrium, the look of absolute glee on her face turned to fear and surprise upon realizing Darcy’s ability to cast an Unforgivable Curse. Is there anything she wouldn’t do for Harry? Especially now that she knows she’s capable of protecting him to that extent?

If Voldemort will not rest until Harry is dead, why should she continue to play nice? Why should she continue to be weak? It is open war now, and it is not one Darcy intends to lose. Let them take her parents, her godfather . . . not her brother, never her brother, not after she’d sacrificed so much to care for him, to love him.

She will not let it all be for nothing.

* * *

_Darcy,  
_

_I’m in half a mind to buy myself a telephone just so I can hear your voice again. I fear a written reply will only disappoint you, especially after such a fearful sounding letter. I hope I don’t disappoint you in the slightest (please don’t tell me if I do), but there is not much comfort I can offer you via written words._

_I’m very sorry to hear that your nightmares have returned. When we see each other again, we can talk about it for as long as you want. Speaking of . . . when will I see you again? You’re very welcome here, and I hope I don’t sound overexcited. If I do, it’s because I am. Please don’t hold it against me._

_I’m feeling very lonely lately, and the thing really keeping me together is seeing you again. Being alone in this sorry excuse for a house is torture, and I must be going mad. The other morning, when I woke, I must have imagined I felt your fingers against my back._

_Hope all is well. Please write as soon as you are able._

_With love,_

_Remus_

She’ll write later. After all, there will be plenty of time to see him while she’s at the Burrow, and she’s already gotten a late start this morning. Darcy lays the letter on her writing desk, slightly embarrassed about the blush dusting her face pink like the dawn sky. How is it possible that the man can make her blush with such an innocent letter? Maybe it’s the idea that Lupin dreams of sleeping beside her again, wants to see her, to talk to her, doesn’t want to disappoint her. She isn’t sure if his feelings for her are genuine, or if it’s mostly just loneliness and a deep sense of loss and abandonment brought on by the death of Sirius (feelings that Darcy also shares), but the idea of spending time with him as a couple again makes her heart flutter, even after such a hard couple of weeks.

She wonders if Lupin lays in bed at night and craves her presence—a warm body beside him that isn’t afraid to touch him, to kiss him, to take care of him in every way she knows how. She wonders if he ever takes out the old pictures of her that he’s kept, wonders if he touches himself to the mere image of her.

Darcy shakes her head, making a small noise of disgust at herself and looking in the mirror. “Get a grip, you fucking psycho,” she whispers to herself, sighing distractedly. “It can’t be normal to think things like that weeks after your godfather’s died, can it?”

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Max move restlessly, trying to fall back asleep after a long night of hunting. He looks at her, black eyes unblinking.

“What?” she hisses.

Max hoots indignantly.

“What do you know?” When Max offers no answer, not even a hoot, she looks back in the mirror, flattening her hair. “I’m mental.”

Twenty minutes later, Darcy is seated in the sun room with a cup of coffee in front of her on a hand-painted coaster, the sky darkening as the rain comes. It sprinkles at first, gentle taps against the glass windows all around them, large drops pattering against the garden just outside. She watches it for a moment before both Mr. and Mrs. Tuttle return with a vase full of water carrying the freshly cut flowers Darcy had given them from Aunt Petunia’s garden.

“These are wonderful, _Süsse_ ,” Mrs. Tuttle coos, a wide smile on her face. “What have we ever done to deserve such a kind neighbor? Why haven’t you visited before? I bet you were just a sweet little girl, weren’t you? I would have eaten you right up.”

Darcy smiles, flattered. “I wanted to thank you for having me in your home and I’ve had such a wonderful beginning to summer.”

Mrs. Tuttle places her hand over her heart, sharing an adoring look with her husband at her side. “I fear there’s going to be a ‘but’ to this . . . your aunt and uncle aren’t concerned about us spending time together, are they?”

“Er—truthfully, I don’t think they know what I’ve been up to. Not that it’s a big secret, I just . . . don’t think they really care much.” Darcy frowns, suddenly very upset. “It’s just, I’m leaving Privet Drive on Friday, and I wanted to say good-bye.”

This news seems to shock both of them. Mr. Tuttle frowns with her, a crease appearing on his forehead, and Mrs. Tuttle’s smile slowly fades, looking genuinely disappointed. “Well, we’ve so enjoyed the time you spent with us,” she says to Darcy. “We don’t have children. You know that. You’ve brought a lot of joy into our lives these past two weeks.”

Darcy nods, unsure why she feels like crying. “Well, I don’t have parents. You know that. I know it’s last minute. I wish we could have had a little more time, but thank you for having me.” She scolds herself harshly in her head— _get a grip! get a grip! get a grip! you’ve only known them two weeks!_

“Who will take care of you?” Mrs. Tuttle asks, cocking her head to the side slightly. She clasps her mug of black coffee between her palms tightly.

“I’m staying with my friends the rest of the summer and then back to school.”

Mrs. Tuttle smiles again. “I hope, wherever you’re going, you’ll be reminded that you’re a special girl.”

“I—” Darcy swallows the lump in her throat, too embarrassed to start crying in front of them. What would they think if a young girl they’d known hardly two weeks starting sobbing just because she was leaving? They’d think she was weird, stupid, foolish, childish— _don’t cry, stupid girl, don’t cry_. She thinks of the Burrow for a moment, overcrowded with people and always difficult to pull someone away for a private word. “You think so?”

Mr. Tuttle smiles weakly. “Forgive my being forward, but you don’t hear that very often, do you?”

Darcy swallows again, her mouth very dry. “No, not really.”

For a moment, just a brief second, Darcy looks at Mrs. Tuttle and sees herself instead, thirty years older or so, with gray streaks in her fading auburn hair, seated beside a husband that smiles at her and reads fancy books and plucks away at a typewriter when he’s feeling bored. She blinks and the image is gone.

Mrs. Tuttle must see the conflict in Darcy’s face. “You are going . . . willingly, aren’t you?”

Darcy nods quickly. “Yes, very much so.”

“Well,” Mr. Tuttle breathes heavily through his nose, smiling at her, “we’ll certainly miss your company. Do you drink, Darcy?”

“Yes.”

“Would you like to see our wine closet?”

“Yes, I would.” Darcy can’t help but to smile, getting to her feet with Mr. Tuttle.

Mrs. Tuttle laughs, shaking her head as she collects the mugs of coffee to bring them into the kitchen. “For someone so well-read, you accept an invitation to look at wine a little too readily,” she teases.

“Promise you won’t entomb me?” Darcy asks Mr. Tuttle with a smile, and he claps a hand on her shoulder, laughing heartily with the rest of them.

Mr. Tuttle leads Darcy down a flight of rickety wooden steps into the cool, finished basement, where wine shelves line the walls, all carrying bottles of different shapes, sizes, and colors. The majority of them are red, with the whites and pinks are in a corner together. The threadbare carpet muffles Darcy’s steps as she examines the wines. She’s never seen alcohol in such a state before—this all seems very fancy to her, reminding her very much of how Darcy imagines Gemma might pick a dinner wine. She’ll have to ask Gemma if her parents have a wine cellar.

“How about an Austrian wine? My wife would like that, I think. Here.” Mr. Tuttle pulls a bottle of white wine from the shelf and gives it to Darcy. “ _Jubiläumsrebe_. She says it better, though.”

Darcy shrugs. “It’s better than what I could do. I don’t want to say it in fear of absolutely butchering it and offending your wife.”

“Nonsense,” Mr. Tuttle replies, taking the bottle back from Darcy. “You’d only offend her if you didn’t care to try.” He inhales deeply, still smiling at her, his fingers tightening around the bottle. “Darcy, I know it may be rather bold of me to ask, but there have been funny rumors surrounding you since . . . well, as far back as I can remember.”

Darcy clears her throat, searching inconspicuously for an exit, feeling uncomfortable. “What kind of rumors?”

“Oh, no! Nothing that I would ever take to heart,” Mr. Tuttle pats the side of her face gently, looking apologetic. “Please don’t think I put stock into these rumors now. I know you, and I think you’re wonderful. It was just odd things. Some said you were . . . forgive my crassness . . . but some said you were mad, and I’d heard years ago that Vernon had sent you to an institution for traumatized youths, but . . . you seem, for lack of a better word, _well_.”

Darcy narrows her eyes. “Thank you. I think?”

“If you’d rather not talk about it, I quite under—”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

Mr. Tuttle looks for a moment as if he’s going to talk about it anyway, but eventually shrugs. “Very well. I’m going to give you our home phone number before you leave today, and if there’s anything at all you need . . . advice, books, a healthy debate, financial help, a place to stay . . . I want you to call us, all right?”

She nods, knowing very well that she will never call them, but the words mean much to her, more than she can say. “Mr. Tuttle—”

“Call me Brian.”

“ _Brian_ ,” she begins again, feeling bile rise in her throat. Darcy swallows it and cringes. “Could I tell you something?”

“Anything, my dear.”

Darcy smiles again, but it quickly flickers and fades. Her stomach churns. “Well, you see . . . my family life is . . . rather unstable, I suppose you could say. And recently, I’d reconnected with my godfather, until he died a few weeks ago.”

“I’m so sorry to hear that,” Mr. Tuttle replies, sounding very sincere. “Was it unexpected?”

“Yes. He died very nobly, though.”

“A military man?”

“Something of that nature.” Darcy hesitates and Mr. Tuttle raises his eyebrows, waiting for her to go on. “He was the closest thing to a father I’ve known, and I came back here to Privet Drive thinking I wouldn’t ever know a real family again . . . but you and Mrs. Tuttle—sorry, _Lena_ —have been so kind to me, and you hardly know me.”

His easy smile is back. “Of course. I hope you visit as soon as you return next summer. We’d be delighted to have you.”

“Thank you.” Darcy rocks back and forth on her feet. “Brian, could I . . . could I hug you?”

Mr. Tuttle blinks in surprise, but his smile doesn’t falter. “Of course you could.”

Darcy takes an uneasy step forward, falling into Mr. Tuttle’s chest when his arms open wide to hold her. He’s at a height with Darcy, his arms warm and welcoming, smelling strongly of seemingly expensive cologne. She hugs him back, burying her face in his shoulder as the tears sting her eyes. He’s bulkier than Sirius had been by far, and she misses the way Sirius’ long hair would brush against her cheek whenever he’d hug her. It’s a hug a father would give, which is funny considering Mr. Tuttle has no children. They break apart when Mrs. Tuttle calls down the stairs for them to kindly hurry.

“You all right?” Mr. Tuttle asks, holding her out at arm’s length and examining her carefully.

Darcy wipes the tears from her face. “Yes.”

“Nothing a little wine can’t fix?”

“There’s nothing that wine can’t fix,” she jokes feebly.

“Wonderful. Well, I’ll tell you what,” he says, putting a hand on her shoulder and guiding her back towards the stairs. “You’re leaving Friday, which means we’ve one more evening left to us. What’s your favorite dinner, Darcy? Lena is such a wonderful cook, and we’d love to have you one last time for dinner.”

“I would love that. I’ll eat anything, truly. Except scallops. I’ve found out I don’t like them recently. And crab. I’m allergic, I think.”

“No seafood,” he laughs. “Duck?”

“I love duck.”

“Good girl.” Mr. Tuttle gives her another sideways grin as they begin to ascend the stairs towards Mrs. Tuttle. “A house without duck is a house I’d rather not live in.”

Darcy lingers for a little while longer, drinking Austrian wine with the Tuttles’ until the bottle is nearly drained. Mrs. Tuttle brings out the edited draft of her play, pushes books on Darcy that she wants her to keep, writes down their telephone number on a torn piece of paper for Darcy. It seems there are so many things left she wants to show Darcy, so many things she wants to introduce to Darcy, so many things she wants to talk about. Darcy decides that two weeks is far too short to know the Tuttles’ for, and if it were up to her, she would postpone her trip to the Burrow.

Of course Mr. Weasley is something of a father figure to her, but she knows she isn’t like to have much of his attention with all of his children around and then some. Maybe he’ll feel sorry for her after what happened to Sirius. Maybe he’ll come bursting into her bedroom when she wakes with a nightmare, just like he did four summers ago when she’d visited the Burrow for the first time.

Regardless, if love and attention and affection is being handed out, she’ll take it, and that’s why Darcy doesn’t leave the Tuttles’ until they’ve finished a second bottle of wine—this time red, American, from California—and the sun has begun to go down. Remembering the pamphlet the Ministry had sent about being out past dark, Darcy bids them good-bye, and Mrs. Tuttle hugs her like a mother and kisses her cheek, making Darcy promise that she’ll return tomorrow for dinner.

She promises, very excited, and walks her bicycle back to the Dursleys’, too drunk to ride in a straight line.


	2. Chapter 2

“You know, it just occurred to me as I was cooking supper, that we don’t know much about you.”

Darcy looks up from her plate at Mrs. Tuttle, who’s smiling in her typical fashion. She and her husband are seated at either end of the long dining table, in the captain’s chairs. To give herself more time, Darcy sips at her glass of red wine. It’s very sweet, and she finds it rather tasty compared to the dry sort of wine that Emily has always preferred. “I’m not very interesting,” she confesses softly, giving them both a small smile.

“Not very interesting?” Mr. Tuttle laughs heartily, wiping his mouth with a cloth napkin and setting it back onto his lap. “You’re a human being with a beating heart and perfectly functioning brain! You have wants, desires, likes and dislikes that are unique to you, unlike anyone else in the world, and you think you’re _not very interesting_?”

“Don’t press the poor girl,” Mrs. Tuttle says, looking back at Darcy. “Maybe we do know some things about you. For instance, we know you play the piano quite well. You like to read, you enjoy good food, you know your poetry.”

Darcy looks down at her plate. _All of the things I’ve learned from Aunt Petunia. If only they could see who—what—I really am._ For a moment, she really does consider it—showing the Tuttles’ what really makes her special and interesting. It wouldn’t have to be a spectacular show of magic, but something small, like the flower she’d conjured for Gavin last summer. The Tuttles are logical and reasonable and, most importantly, seemingly open-minded people, but Darcy isn’t sure they’d take to a random spot of magic without any backstory to it. Then she thinks she’s being ridiculous, remembers that she’d be breaking Wizarding law by revealing herself to them, and the thought flickers away as if someone’s turned it off with a switch.

As conversation resumes, small talk to fill the silence that makes all three of them laugh, Darcy finds herself thinking of what Harry had asked her about just _turning your back on it_. Just forgetting magic completely to live a life just like this one. It’s not as if Darcy is completely opposed to living without magic—sure, it’s convenient and exciting and it does make her special, but her magic does not define her. What would be so wrong with living out the rest of her life without it? Shacking up with some Muggle to take care of her, to love her, to cook for her, to sit outside and listen to the shivering trees during the warm seasons? But Darcy remembers McGonagall’s story about the Muggle boy she’d loved . . . she hadn’t been able to give up magic, but why? What good has magic ever brought Darcy?

_Magic has brought you plenty of things. Magic brought you Hogwarts. Magic brought you Emily, Gemma, and Carla. Magic brought you Sirius. Magic brought you Remus._

Darcy focuses more intently on her food. _Magic took your parents away from you. Magic is the reason Voldemort wants to kill Harry. Magic is what took Sirius away_. It is so scandalous to wish that she’d never been passed this goblet? Why couldn’t she have had a normal life, with parents like the Tuttles who teach her something new everyday, who encourage her to play the piano, who show her old photographs detailing their family history? Is Harry right about her doing well in a setting like this? Darcy, who’d never quite fit in at Hogwarts for the first few years, who had much trouble adjusting to the rustic and magical school. At Hogwarts, there was never any Muggle poetry, there were never tea parties or kitchens to cook in (as far as she was aware). She’d been given uniforms instead of having Aunt Petunia there to pick her outfits, the discipline system was a lot different. She hadn’t even _liked_ Hogwarts until Harry came.

But this . . . Harry’s right, she thinks. She belongs here. She would do well in a situation like this. She would make a good housewife, typing away at a typewriter with a lit cigarette between her lips, sharing love with her handsome husband, lounging on a sofa to watch television. No magic, no Voldemort, no Hogwarts, no war. What a life that would be . . .

Mr. Tuttle is in the middle of telling Darcy how he’d met his wife when she comes out of her reverie. It was shortly after divorcing his first wife, he explains, who had been the manager of a large fast-food corporation, and who had also been a real bore. They had married when Mr. Tuttle was twenty-three and after eight years of marriage, had called it quits. He and Mrs. Tuttle met at the Royal Exchange Theater in Manchester, he recalls fondly, where Mrs. Tuttle had been a twenty-something budding writer, there to critique the play being put on, scribbling her journal from Mr. Tuttle’s left side. She’d hated the play, hated the acting, hating the lighting, hated the score, and didn’t even blush a little when Mr. Tuttle had asked if she shouldn’t lighten up a little. When her review was published in the paper, trashing the play and everyone involved, Mr. Tuttle called her and asked her out to dinner.

“Two years later, we were happily married and living in a small flat in Oxford,” Mrs. Tuttle sighs contently, looking across the table at her husband with a very dewy-dyed expression. “I used to sneak into his lectures when I lacked inspiration for my writing. I’d sit right at the back of the classroom and he wouldn’t even notice sometimes until the students had left and it was just me sitting there.”

Darcy licks her lips, setting her silverware down. “Could I ask you something? And I hope it’s not too personal.”

“You’re wondering why we never had children,” Mrs. Tuttle answers, not unkindly, but smiling at Darcy almost sympathetically. Darcy nods sheepishly, blushing, hoping she hasn’t crossed a line. “I traveled a lot when we were first married and I wrote a lot, and I couldn’t have done so with a child. And by the time I thought I might be ready, Brian was nearing forty and . . . well, I don’t know. I suppose we were happy with our lives. Sometimes our flat seemed empty and quiet, but we never lacked for company. Brian would have students over for dinner sometimes to debate topics he’d lectured about or to discuss a particular piece of research.”

“Do you ever wish you had children?”

Mr. Tuttle smiles at his wife over his wine glass.

“Sometimes I wonder what our lives would have been like if we had,” Mrs. Tuttle replies, not at all sounding disappointed. “But we were happy with the way our lives were going. And I’m still happy.”

“What about you, Darcy? Children in your future?” Mr. Tuttle asks, raising his eyebrows. He leans back in his chair and pushes his near empty plate away, placing a hand on his stomach.

“I don’t know,” Darcy confesses, and she finds it so easy to talk to them, she might as well be honest. “Truthfully, I don’t know that I can have children. It would be nice, but . . . I’d have to find someone willing to have children with me first, anyway.” She smiles nervously, her hands held tight in her lap.

“You sweet thing!” Mrs. Tuttle croons, a slim-fingered hand to her heart, a slight crease between her brows. “Are there contenders, at least?”

Darcy blushes still more furiously. “I don’t . . . well, I don’t have a . . . no, I suppose there aren’t any contenders.”

To her surprise, Mrs. Tuttle says, “Good.” After a moment, in which she drinks deeply from her glass, marking it with bright red lipstick, she elaborates. “You’re young, and there will be plenty of time for such things later in life. Right now, you focus on school. Men are only a distraction.”

Mr. Tuttle laughs. “I can’t even argue against it.”

“I’d like to get married,” Darcy smiles, feeling not at all abashed after revealing such an intimate secret. “I’ve always wanted to get married.”

Mr. and Mrs. Tuttle look at her as if seeing her as a child full of foolish and naive hope. It makes Darcy falter, but Mrs. Tuttle shakes her head and refills Darcy’s empty wine glass. “Have you ever been in love, _Süsse_?”

Darcy feels childish admitting it, but she nods. There is no doubt in her mind that she had been—and is, if she’s being honest with herself—unequivocally in love with Remus Lupin, quite possibly since the moment she’d seen him on the Hogwarts Express. “Yes. He wanted to marry me once, when I was nineteen.”

She half-expects one of them to start chiding her, clicking their tongue in disapproval, but they do nothing of the sort. Mrs. Tuttle only continues to smile fondly. “Well, we wish you the best of luck, and I do hope that, when you are to be married, you will invite us to the ceremony.”

“Of course.”

It isn’t long until dessert is set in front of her, a dish Mrs. Tuttle calls _Millirahmstrudel_ (and what Mr. Tuttle calls a milk-cream strudel), a dessert that her mother had made for her family often when she was just a little girl. It takes Darcy an entire five minutes to learn how to properly pronounce this, and Mrs. Tuttle is so excited that she enjoys it, she scribbles the recipe on a piece of paper and gives it to Darcy. The three of them share a last cup of coffee with their dessert, and afterwards, they walk Darcy out to the front with leftover _Millirahmstrudel_ wrapped up in her arms. She places it into the basket of her bicycle and sighs, turning back to the Tuttles to say good-bye.

She hates goodbyes. She’s always hated them, but especially now, especially when she isn’t sure that she’ll ever see them again. Darcy looks at them in the evening light for a long time. The moon is out—a beautiful, white crescent moon, hardly allowing them light to see. She doesn’t care about getting home late tonight, not when this night has been so important to her. Mr. Tuttle’s arm is slung over his wife’s shoulders, her own face looking sad and her eyes shining in the glow of the yellow lights on either side of their front door.

Mrs. Tuttle inhales, sensing Darcy’s hesitation. “Well . . . you have the books I gave you?”

Darcy nods.

“Good. I think you’ll like them.” Mrs. Tuttle swallows, and it makes tears well up in Darcy’s eyes to see that the moment is making not only herself emotional. To know that her feelings are not unwarranted . . . to have them validated . . . “And Brian gave you our phone number, so call us if you need anything.” Mrs. Tuttle seems surprised by her own show of emotion, clearing her throat. “Do you want some food to take home with you? I think there’s still some potatoes if you’d like . . .”

“No, thank you,” Darcy smiles weakly, wrapping her arms around herself. “Thank you for dinner. It was the best duck I’ve ever had. And the wine was incredible.”

“Let me get you a bottle to take with you—”

“Lena,” Mr. Tuttle says gently, holding his wife in place as she attempts to dash back inside the house. “We’ve kept her long enough. I don’t think there’s going to be room for anything else in her luggage if we keep pressing things on her.”

“Oh, all right,” Mrs. Tuttle frowns. “Come here, _Süsse_ ,let me give you a hug.”

Darcy moves closer, closing her eyes as both Mr. and Mrs. Tuttle’s arms wrap around her. For a moment, Darcy imagines she’s hugging her own parents, Lily and James—she imagines their embrace would be filled with such love, such warmth. She hates herself for crying. Her body has always betrayed her emotions despite her unwillingness to express particular emotions at times.

Finally, after what feels like hours, they all break apart. Mr. Tuttle wipes at his damp forehead with his handkerchief. “Safe travels,” he says, and with that, Darcy mounts her bicycle. Halfway down the road, she looks over her shoulder and sees them still standing in the threshold of their front door, waving good-bye.

* * *

Neither Vernon nor Dudley flinch when Darcy walks through the front door. They’re focused on the television, a little too intently for Darcy’s liking, as if forcing themselves to ignore her. It doesn’t matter much, as she makes her way upstairs, peeling off her shoes and removing the pin from her hair as she ascends. Harry’s bedroom light is still on, filtering through the small gap between the bottom of his door and the carpeted hallway floor.

As soon as she’s in her bedroom, Max gives a gentle and soft hoot, nipping at her outstretched hand to say hello. She throws her shoes in a corner, of places the leftover dessert on her nightstand, and barely reaches the bed when Harry knocks, just as she collapses onto her back, sighing heavily.

“How was it? I thought you’d be back later.”

“I thought I’d leave early before the Death Eaters had a chance to surround the house,” Darcy says flatly, sitting back up and grabbing the wrapped dessert, offering it out for Harry to take. In the drawer of her nightstand are a few stolen utensils from the kitchen. “Here, try this. It’s really good.”

“What is it?”

“ _Millirahmstrudel_.”

“Bless you.”

“Just eat it, would you? I’m telling you, it’s really good.” Darcy grabs a magazine off the floor and lays back in bed, flipping lazily through the pages as Harry inhales the food hardly stopping for breath. He breathes heavily, and it makes her smile as he continues to eat the rest of it, not bothering to leave any for Darcy. “Do you think I would look good in this?”

Harry lifts his eyes from the _Millirahmstrudel_ —or what’s left of it—in order to see the picture Darcy is showing him. “Yes.”

Darcy purses her lips, looking again at the pretty black dress in the magazine. “Would you say that about anything I showed you? Even if was horrible?”

Harry considers her for a moment, his mouth full of food, and shrugs. “Yes.” He swallows loudly, putting down the tin foil the dessert had been wrapped and the fork atop her nightstand. “You really think Dumbledore is going to come for us tomorrow?”

“He said he would, so why wouldn’t he?” Darcy asks, raising an eyebrow. “Have you packed?”

“No, not yet. But I was going to.” He looks sideways at Darcy’s trunk, standing against the now mostly empty wardrobe. Her bedroom is relatively empty now, all of her clothes packed away, and considering the fact that Darcy had left much and more of her things at Hogwarts, it hadn’t been very much to pack. Max’s cage has been freshly cleaned, but remains open as he knows better than to leave just yet. “You don’t think it’s too good to be true?”

“No,” Darcy answers, narrowing her eyes at him. She closes the magazine, an old thing of Aunt Petunia’s dedicated to the most recent celebrity gossip and the newest fashion trends, and throws it across the room to the empty waste bin. “If Dumbledore said he’s coming, then I’m sure he’s coming. Have you told the Dursleys to expect him?”

“And have them gloat when he doesn’t show up?”

Her angers flares, but she tries to keep it under control. “Harry, go pack.”

Harry frowns, looking slightly affronted. Darcy lays back on her pillow, covering her face with her hands to block out the lamp light that’s causing her temples to ache painfully. “I will later, I said. I want to stay here with you for a little.”

“Flattery gets you nowhere,” Darcy tells him, chuckling to herself. “Remus told me that. Well . . . Professor Lupin did, I suppose.”

Harry doesn’t answer, going through an old newspaper, finishing his dessert, as Darcy closes her eyes and becomes lost in thought. The thought of Lupin physically pains her—not only because of his appearance in her nightmares and not only because she misses him so much, but because she can’t even begin to understand the hurt Sirius’ death must be causing him. First it was her parents, and then it was Peter’s supposed death and Sirius’ descent into madness, then Peter the traitor and Sirius once more his friend. And now Sirius is dead, and Peter is still a traitor. She wants to soothe him, to comfort him, to love him. She wants to lay with him, touch him, kiss him. She needs touch and affection, and doesn’t he?

“Harry,” Darcy begins, her hands still over her eyes, “do you like him? Truly?”

Harry seems to understand at once. “Of course I do. He’s brilliant.”

Darcy lowers her hands from her face slowly, opening her eyes to look up at the ceiling. “I won’t let anything happen to him. I would kill for him.” She turns her head to look at Harry, who seems slightly perturbed by this statement. “I would.”

_Just like I tortured Bellatrix for Sirius. I would have killed her. It was for you, Sirius. It was all for you._

* * *

With Harry having failed to tell the Dursleys of Dumbledore’s arrival late Friday evening (out of spite, disbelief Dumbledore would come, or sheer forgetfulness, Darcy isn’t sure), the scene is rather awkward. With the three Dursleys crammed together on the slightly caving sofa, Darcy takes a seat in the straight-backed armchair before the electric fireplace, Harry half-sitting on the arm of it. Across the room, occupying the last armchair, is Dumbledore, smiling as if nothing is amiss. He keeps surveying the place cheerfully, looking to Vernon every so often with raised eyebrows, the pleasant smile never leaving his face.

It’s odd having Dumbledore here, looking so like a wizard and seated in the least magical or extraordinary living room in the world, possibly. Darcy feels bad for privately wishing someone else could have come to get them, someone who could at least look normal—Lupin or Kingsley or one of the Weasleys. Though part of her is glad Dumbledore seems to inspire such fear into the Dursleys, for she enjoys watching them fidget uncomfortably in their own home.

Desperate to escape the neverending silence and somehow threatening tension, Darcy clears her throat. “Professor Dumbledore, would you like a coffee?”

This seems to be what Dumbledore has been waiting for, and she blushes furiously. “No, thank you, Darcy. I would not wish to trouble you . . . unless you had something stronger?”

She shakes her head apologetically.

“No matter.” Dumbledore waves impatiently at her, though not unkindly, and Darcy almost jumps at the sight of his hand. It’s black, looking charred to a crisp, as if the slightest breeze or breath would turn the thing to ashes and dust. He catches her looking and winks, but says nothing to elaborate upon it. With a flourish of his wand, Dumbledore has six glasses appear before their very eyes, filled with what looks like—

“Madam Rosmerta’s finest. Darcy—” Dumbledore takes his own glass from the air and leans forward as Darcy reaches for her own, “—I believe I’ve told you about this before. Try it. I’m eager to hear your opinion.”

Darcy drinks. It’s good with hints of oak, tasting more natural than she prefers, and she says so.

“You prefer the honeyed mead?” Dumbledore chuckles, eyes darting to the Dursleys for a split second, whose glasses seem very insistent upon being taken. “Well, this is stronger, and I thought a better option for what we must . . . most unfortunately . . . discuss. Sirius’ will was discovered a week ago.”

Darcy closes her eyes for a moment, sighing heavily. Without having to look, she can feel the Dursleys eyes on her and Harry. Beside her, Harry tenses.

“Most everything is straightforward. You split his gold between you, fifty-fifty, and Sirius’ personal possessions are to be split among you however you decide, however—”

“Their godfather’s dead?”

Darcy quickly looks to Vernon, wanting nothing more than to blast him to pieces. How is it possible for one person to be so insensitive? The floating glass of mead hits the side of his face again and again, and Darcy doesn’t feel this is punishment enough. “Yes,” Darcy hisses, and Vernon looks surprised that she’s spoken. “Are you deaf? Do you have any other asinine questions before we continue?”

“Now, see here, girl! I don’t need any of your _cheek_!” Vernon shouts, swatting at the glass still rapping against the side of his head. “You’re asking for a—” He stops abruptly, his hand curled into a fist, and looks warily at Dumbledore, whose face has darkened.

Dumbledore looks to Darcy, continuing in a warm voice. “Our problem, however, lies in the fact that Sirius has left you, Darcy, number twelve Grimmauld Place.”

Darcy hesitates. “Me?”

“She’s been left a house?” Vernon asks loudly again. He seems triumphant, as if this is the best news he could have received at this very moment. “Excellent! When will she be moving in? And you’ll be taking the boy, won’t you?”

Taking Dumbledore’s lead, Darcy ignores Vernon, though anger is starting to bubble within her. Thinking of number twelve, Grimmauld Place makes her angry, too. The place that Sirius so hated with the elf heads on the walls, the dusty carpets, the ugly tapestry of the Black family tree, Sirius skulking about and grumbling under his breath and smelling like stale drink . . . “I can’t speak for Harry,” she begins quietly, looking over her shoulder to Harry, “but I don’t want it. The Order can keep using it as they have been.”

Harry nods his approval.

“A generous offer,” Dumbledore answers, smiling kindly at them, his eyes twinkling. “But the Order has currently vacated the house. You see, Black family tradition decrees the house be passed down to the next male with the name of Black—which would be Sirius’ brother, Regulus, if he were still alive—but Sirius produced no heirs. Sirius wanted you, Darcy, to have the house, but we cannot guarantee there are not spells or enchantments put in place to keep the home from ever being owned by someone who is not a pureblood.”

“I bet there has,” Harry mutters bitterly into Darcy’s ear.

Dumbledore hears him. “Quite. If such an enchantment exists, then the house would pass to none other than Bellatrix Lestrange, the next oldest in the Black line.”

Darcy is struck deaf at these words. Without warning, her right arm begins to tingle and the pale, manic face of Bellatrix Lestrange floats before her mind’s eye. Harry’s voice sounds in her ear again and Dumbledore replies, but it’s only incoherent sound, muffled voices, like she’s gone underwater. She feels the first warm drip of blood on her lips and touches her aching nose.

“Don’t drip on the furniture!” Vernon growls, but most of his frustration is probably due to the glass still trying its damndest to be taken from the air and drunk. It bounces up and down on the top of his head.

“Are you all right?” Dumbledore asks, frowning with a crease between his white brows. He withdraws a handkerchief, and Darcy is most surprised when Harry takes it quickly, moving with some speed around the armchair to kneel on the other side, holding the cloth to Darcy’s face.

“It happens sometimes,” Harry explains to Dumbledore, making Darcy blush. Harry is no stranger to nosebleeds, something that happened rather frequently when they were children.

“Well, we should all be grateful you have such a loving brother,” Dumbledore says, smiling weakly at Darcy over Harry’s head. “I know this topic is most upsetting for you, so I’ll proceed more quickly. We can find out whether or not the house is truly yours with a simple test—”

“Get these ruddy things off us!”

Darcy would prefer Dumbledore leave the mead glasses as they are, tapping rather hard against the sides and on top of the Dursleys’ heads, but Dumbledore takes care of it with a few careful, sly insults to their hospitality. Harry removes the cloth from her face to check the damage, smiling slightly upon realizing the blood has stopped flowing. Dumbledore inclines his head to Darcy, holding out his wand, and he gives it a sharp flick. With a _crack_ like a backfiring car, there is Kreacher, standing there just feet from her, his neck ripe for a good throttling.

She cannot remember ever feeling such hatred towards something so far from human. Neither Darcy nor Harry shout in surprise, but the Dursleys shriek and yelp, terrified of this thing that is dirtying their floors. Kreacher holds tight to his ears, face screwed up as he shouts a mantra—“Kreacher won’t, Kreacher won’t, Kreacher _won’t_!”

All Darcy wants to do is wrap her slender fingers around Kreacher’s throat, to demand answers from him, to send him somewhere far away where she’ll never have to see him again. _Gemma wouldn’t hesitate to kill him after what he did_. Her legs seem to work of their own accord, making her stand up, her chest heaving.

“Get him out of here,” Darcy snaps at Dumbledore. “He’s disgusting.”

“Kreacher won’t! He won’t go to the brat!” Kreacher continues to croak, twisting his ears, snot running down his nose. “Kreacher will never serve a mistress that breeds with werewolves—”

Vernon’s face drains of all color as his piggy eyes slowly find Darcy again. Aunt Petunia looks horrified, unable to look away from Kreacher. Dudley looks almost curious if Darcy ignores the panic in his face. However, at Kreacher’s words, Darcy gives Dumbledore a very _I told you so_ kind of look.

Over Kreacher’s continuing protests, Dumbledore says, “If the house is yours, so is Kreacher. If Kreacher is yours, he must obey. Give him an order.”

Darcy whirls to look at Harry. He scrunches his nose. “Just tell him to shut up.”

“Kreacher,” Darcy snarls, “ _shut up_.”

And he does. It’s unwillingly, reluctantly, against everything that Kreacher wants, but he shuts up. He throws himself against the carpet, beating the ground with tiny fists, throwing a fit as Dobby might, but Darcy has no pity nor sympathy for Kreacher in the slightest. It seems as if he’s going to choke, his eyes bulging from their deep sockets, face turning purple and several veins popping in his neck as he raises a hand to his throat.

“Number twelve, Grimmauld Place seems to be yours, Darcy,” Dumbledore answers, and even he seems slightly disgusted by the scene in front of him. “Might I make a suggestion? If it is agreeable, perhaps we could set Kreacher to working in the kitchens at Hogwarts? I’m sure Dobby will not object to keeping a close eye on our . . . friend.”

“I think that would be . . . agreeable. Harry?” Darcy asks, looking to him again. All she wants if for Kreacher to be gone, away from her, far away from her. “Is that all right with you?”

“That’s all right with me,” he says.

“Kreacher,” Darcy says again, in the most commanding tone she can muster. “You’re to go work in the Hogwarts kitchens with the other house-elves.”

Kreacher vanishes with another _crack_ , and Darcy feels it’s safe to sit down again.

“And Hagrid has been looking after Buckbeak since Sirius’ death, but if you had other arrangements in mind . . . ?”

“No,” Harry says suddenly, and Darcy doesn’t bother to argue. “Buckbeak can stay with Hagrid.”

Darcy nods. Dumbledore smiles. “I’m glad to see the two of you are of the same mind,” he says politely. “As you so usually are. Now then—have you both packed?”

“Yes, sir,” Darcy says.

Harry pauses, a flush creeping up his neck. “Er—”

Dumbledore seems to understand. “Doubtful that I would turn up?”

“I’ll just . . . go finish.” Harry excuses himself.

Dumbledore turns one last time to Darcy. “Your owl?”

“Max is delivering a letter to Remus—” Vernon narrows his eyes at this, “—and I’ve told him to find us at the Burrow when he returns.”

“Good girl.” There’s a smile on his face when he addresses Darcy, but it quickly disappears upon looking at the Dursleys, his face now frightening, lacking a twinkle in his warm eyes. “Now then, while Harry is finishing his packing, there are some words I would like to have with you. I explained in my letter, fifteen years ago, how Lord Voldemort had murdered the Potters in an attempt to kill Harry. Now that Lord Voldemort is back, he is in more danger than he was then.”

There’s an oppressive silence that follows that is somehow more threatening than Dumbledore’s tone of voice. Darcy remains seated in the armchair, her hands between her thighs, her eyes fixed upon her scuffed shoes. Her heart begins to beat very fast again and she finds herself glancing through the threshold leading to a perfect view of the bottom of the stairs, hoping Harry will come jumping down them to alleviate the tension.

“When I brought Harry and Darcy here, to Privet Drive, I was faced with a terrible choice, a choice that continues to haunt me to this day—a choice that I deeply, deeply regret,” Dumbledore explains, and though his voice is calm, there is a steady rage imbued in it that, while the Dursleys likely aren’t as familiar with, is palpable throughout the living room. “By taking Harry into your home, Petunia, you sealed the magic bond that keeps him safe because of Lily’s blood that flows through your veins. But the same could be said for Darcy. Lily Potter’s blood flows through her veins, as well, yet I chose you, Petunia, because I thought you would treat your sister’s orphaned children as your own, and that way Darcy would not have to deal with such a terrible burden at such a young age.”

Darcy chances a glance at Aunt Petunia, surprised to find her looking right back. One hand is holding tightly to Dudley’s, the other trembling in his lap. Aunt Petunia’s eyes, so unlike Darcy’s mother’s, are watery and almost glazed over, as if in a trance.

“I expressed the hope that you would treat them as your own, and you did no such thing.” Dumbledore’s voice becomes lower, more of the Headmaster’s voice she’s used to during time of strife or struggle. The voice he’d spoken to Voldemort with just a couple of weeks ago in the Atrium of the Minister of Magic. “I am frankly astounded that Darcy proved she was capable of showing love at five-years-old that you have not shown either she or her brother in fifteen years. Harry has known nothing but neglect and cruelty at your hands, while knowing nothing but love and affection at Darcy’s, despite her suffering abuse at the hands of your husband. You should be ashamed of yourselves—all of you. It made me sick to know Darcy would be returning here after seeing what happened to her last summer. And despite it all, Darcy has proved herself to be a remarkable woman.”

Aunt Petunia flushes, her cheeks growing slightly blotchy just like Darcy’s do. For some reason, this sight makes Darcy angry, as if sharing a trait with Aunt Petunia is confirmation she is, herself, the absolute worst. But Dumbledore’s sentiment makes Darcy’s mouth twitch, a prideful smile tugging at the corners of her lips.

“Regardless of your ill-treatment of these fine children—or in Darcy’s case: this young woman—your bringing them into your home has provided them a certain amount of protection over the years.” Dumbledore’s gaze at Aunt Petunia doesn’t falter, but she blushes harder. “The magic will cease to operate when Harry comes of age next year, when he turns seventeen. I would ask that the both of them return here one last time next summer, to ensure the continuation of this protection for as long as we can manage.”

Harry’s light footsteps sound from the staircase, dragging his trunk behind him. Hedwig’s cage rattles and she hoots indignantly as they reach the bottom. His appearance seems to put an abrupt end to Dumbledore’s chastising the Dursleys (Darcy can’t deny she’d be very pleased to hear him continue), and both he and Darcy get to their feet. Darcy’s own trunk is propped against the front door, along with Max’s empty cage, recently cleaned and no longer smelling of dead rodents or owl droppings.

“Here, allow me. We do not want to be encumbered by these things.” Dumbledore holds out his wand as he approaches Harry, Darcy right on his heels. “Why don’t you bring your Invisibility Cloak, Harry, and I’ll send the rest of your things to the Burrow to await you?”

Hardly five minutes later, Darcy, Dumbledore, and Harry are walking down the shadowy Privet Drive, every so often being bathed with orange light from the flickering street lamps. Darcy can’t remember a time where she’d felt so incredibly out of place. Not only does she feel that Dumbledore has absolutely no place in the Muggle word (though in a black traveling cloak, it’s probably not the most normal looking she’s ever seen him), but Darcy feels that all of this is too good to be true. She knows that Dumbledore had wanted them to do something, and that something suddenly frightens her. Where is he taking them?

“I hear you’ve been having a busy summer,” Dumbledore says as they walk, more a leisurely stroll than anything. Darcy has to slow her pace to keep at his side, and it’s then that she realizes he’s talking to her. “Mrs. Figg tells me she sees you ride by on your bicycle everyday.”

“It keeps me busy,” Darcy confesses, sharing a knowing look with Harry on Dumbledore’s opposite side. The two of them quickly stifle smiles. “But I think I miss my friends, sir.”

“And they miss you, as well,” Dumbledore replies with a chuckle. “Currently, the Weasleys have been generous enough to offer their home as temporary Headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix, so you will not want for company there, I think.” They walk a little further. “Keep your wands out, the both of you. Just up here and we’ll set out for our true destination.”

Darcy grabs the handle of her wand, extracting it slowly from her pocket, keeping her eyes out for anything suspicious or for anyone watching. When Dumbledore offers them both his arms, Darcy understands that they’re going to Disapparate. He gives Harry his unblemished arm, so as to give him a stronger grip, and Darcy gently holds onto his blackened hand’s arm, causing Dumbledore to wince. “I’m sorry,” she whispers, but Dumbledore smiles and shakes his head, and within an instant, her feet leave the ground.

Upon arriving at their new destination, Darcy immediately releases Dumbledore and chuckles at the sight of Harry. Harry’s hand is to his chest as he sucks in deep breathes and exhales loudly as if the wind has been knocked out of him. There are tears streaming from his eyes behind his glasses, his cheeks rather pale and drained of all color.

“Are you all right?” Darcy laughs, flattening Harry’s dark hair with her fingers as the midnight breeze picks it up.

“I think I prefer brooms,” he sputters, breathing heavily and groaning.

This time, Darcy and Dumbledore share a small smile, and as Harry regains his senses, Darcy takes a look around. With the town being so empty and so dark, it makes for a very ominous scene. A bronze memorial stands in the center of the village, a short way away from the three of them, worn down and battered by weather and surrounded by some rickety looking benches that Darcy wouldn’t trust to hold her. There are no lights on in any of the houses around them in the square, and Darcy feels that the thatched-roof buildings make the place seem like a less-magical Hogsmeade. The cobblestone street is awkward to stand on, but pleasing aesthetically, and Darcy almost wishes the coast was nearby to make the air smell salty and the sound of waves crashing against rocks would fill the air. She doesn’t know why she’s forcibly reminded of Lupin’s childhood home. The memory of what he had done to her in his old home with his clothes still on makes Darcy far more aroused than she has any right to be.

“Professor, where are we?” Harry asks. Darcy turns from the statue in the center of the square to find Harry looking around curiously.

“Budleigh Babberton,” Dumbledore replies, smiling around at the empty square. “We are, most unfortunately, once again one member of staff short. I hope that the two of you will persuade an old colleague of mine to fill that position.”

“Us?” Darcy frowns, stepping up to Harry’s side. It’s only now, shoulder to shoulder with him, does she realize how much he’s grown. “Even me?”

“Especially you, Darcy.” The way Dumbledore says it so cheerfully makes her wary, but Darcy supposes there is no turning back now. She fingers the handle of her wand. “Here, this way.”

They walk in silence for a little bit down the street, occasionally taking a left or right turn. Harry asks about the new Minister, to which Dumbledore’s answer almost matches Emily’s—vague and wondering. It’s only when Dumbledore lifts his injured hand to point to a particularly darkened house that Harry speaks. “Sir, what happened to your hand?”

“Not now, Harry,” Dumbledore tells him, not unkindly. “I do not have the time to do justice to the thrilling tale. Here we . . . oh dear.”

Darcy stops dead at the gate of a pretty looking house with an overgrown garden that could use some weeding. The front door is hanging off its hinges and not a single light glows from within. Though something about this scene strikes Darcy as odd, and she turns to Dumbledore with a frown. “Professor,” she begins, scanning the starry sky above them. “If something has happened . . . wouldn’t there be a Dark Mark?”

“A very astute observation,” Dumbledore says, and Darcy blushes, swelling with pride. “Remus has been telling you old war stories, has he?”

“Something like that.”

Dumbledore turns very serious again. “Regardless, we must proceed with caution. Wands at the ready, and follow me.”

While Dumbledore opens the creaking gate, Darcy and Harry hesitate. They look sideways at each other before following Dumbledore up the garden path and into the house. When Dumbledore lights his wand, Darcy mimics him, but Harry keeps his wand tip dark. The first hallway is rather narrow for the three of them, but Dumbledore leads them into a sitting room off that first hallway, and the light from their wands throws a scene of destruction into view. Blood spatters the walls, and Darcy accidentally steps on a white piano key that has been thrown across the room from the smashed grand piano tucked in the back corner. As they move, there’s the sound of crunching glass beneath their feet from an expensive-looking chandelier. Even the slashed and sorry looking furniture seems expensive, and the sitting room—at first glance, and if it were in better condition—reminds Darcy of a sitting room that Gemma might find attractive.

The feeling of being watched is very present in the room, and Darcy turns quickly, expecting to see someone in the shadows, but it’s only an overturned, comfortable looking armchair. Darcy looks behind the sofa, wand held out in front of her, but there’s no one there. There isn’t anyone hiding behind the piano either, and when she pokes her head out into the hallway, there is only silence, not a single footstep from upstairs or a rustle from the kitchen. She walks back into the sitting room, shrugging.

“There’s no one here,” she says simply, realizing how much tension has suddenly left her body at this revelation.

“They might have dragged him off,” Harry suggests, but Dumbledore hums and shakes his head, hovering in front of the armchair.

Darcy watches Dumbledore for a moment, about to turn away from him when he takes his wand and prods the tip of it hard into the armchair. She is no stranger to Dumbledore doing strange things, but she doesn’t expect the armchair to yelp and transform suddenly in the blink of eye from an armchair to a fat, old man with a bald head and thick, gray mustache. Darcy and Harry stare at him for a moment, unable to speak, as the man rubs his stomach and grumbles about his red and watery eye.

“Good evening, Horace.”

“That hurt, you know,” the man called Horace continues to grumble, not even seeming to notice Harry and Darcy standing together in a shocked silence. “What gave it away?”

“Well, it was my friend, Darcy, who instantly recognized the lack of a Dark Mark over the house. She is rather intuitive.” Dumbledore gestures to Darcy, but she wishes he hadn’t. The feeling of Horace’s eyes on her make her uncomfortable, as if he’s appraising her for auction.

“Darcy Potter . . .” Horace says softly, taking a few crunching steps closer. Darcy pushes Harry behind her, but he notices the second figure in the darkness almost immediately. “And Harry Potter—Merlin’s beard!” His face lightens for a moment, and then Horace narrows his eyes, turning to Dumbledore. “Is this how you thought you’d persuade me? With a pair of Potters?”

Dumbledore smiles knowingly, holding his hands behind his back. “Darcy has been working under Severus Snape as his apprentice. This will be her third year back at Hogwarts as a teacher.”

“Has she?” Horace asks, eyes snapping back to Darcy. He looks at her face for a long time, at the hair pulled back into a ponytail, up and down her body. “She’s pretty . . . intuitive, according to you, Albus . . . a good enough Potioneer to be taken on by Severus . . .” All of these things are good, to Darcy, but Horace rounds once more on Dumbledore. “So what’s a girl like that doing at Hogwarts?”

Dumbledore opens his mouth to answer, the ghost of a smile on his face, but Darcy bristles. “Excuse me,” she says loudly, making Horace jump and face her again. “I’m right here, you know.”

“I meant no offense!” Horace says, suddenly smiling at her and taking her wandless hand in both of his and squeezing. “Only that . . . well, woman of your . . . nature . . . it seems cruel that Albus would keep you away from the world by placing you at the side of Severus—”

“What is so surprising about that?” Darcy asks, pulling her hand away from Horace.

“Horace,” Dumbledore interrupts, his eyebrows raised. Darcy’s quite glad he’s said something, but surely the next thing out of Horace’s mouth would be something stupid. “Perhaps, once we clean up, we can make proper introductions.”

“Right, of course . . . of course . . .”

“Would you like my assistance?” Dumbledore asks.

Horace nods grudgingly. “Please.”

As the two men stand with their backs turned to Darcy and Harry, wands held aloft to fix the mess in the sitting room, she mutters out of the corner of her mouth, “What a fucking prick.”

Harry snickers, covering his mouth when Dumbledore looks over his shoulder, winking.


	3. Chapter 3

The sitting room is quite nice all put together.

Darcy aches to play the piano now sitting—with all of its keys—in the corner again, right side up this time. The furniture is restored, picture frames are put back together and standing on the shelves again in between many thick books with spines and pages magically mended. The wallpaper is free of any blood stains and with the fire in the hearth and oil lamps burning about the room, it creates a very cozy atmosphere. Darcy could very much grow accustomed to sitting in this room, reading or drinking or fucking some sophisticated man on the comfortable sofa. She shakes the feeling off, more than ready to leave this place and go back to the Burrow.

“I’ve gathered that you know both Harry and Darcy Potter,” Dumbledore finally says, when everyone is comfortable. It’s clear that Horace is trying to force himself to keep his eyes away from both she and Harry on the sofa, but she notices him glancing in their direction every so often before catching himself and looking away again. “Darcy, Harry, this is Horace Slughorn.”

“You think you’re clever, don’t you?” Slughorn scoffs, wringing his hands together. “Bringing her here . . .” He looks nervously at Darcy once more, and she cocks an eyebrow. “My answer is still no, Albus.”

“Then what about a drink? For old time’s sake? Darcy is very keen on whiskey, if you have some.” Dumbledore nods politely at Darcy, and she can’t deny that a glass of whiskey would do her wonders.

“Is she?” Slughorn asks, the tip of his tongue darting out to wet his lips.

No one answers his soft, rhetorical question, instead watching him saunter over to a small dry bar, holding his nose in the air as he passes Darcy and Harry. To her great surprise, Slughorn offers both she and her brother a drink of whiskey (the scent of honey wafting up from the liquid within the glass makes her sigh contently). Harry looks down into it, only looking up to watch Darcy take a sip. The four of them drink in an awkward silence for a few minutes, until Darcy’s cup is drained and Harry pours the rest of his whiskey into Darcy’s glass to refill it.

“So, Horace,” Dumbledore smacks his lips, “all of these precautions . . . I hope they weren’t to deter us from a friendly visit?”

Slughorn looks very much as if he wants to say _yes_ —the word is on the tip of his tongue, and then he swallows a large gulp of whiskey and seems to loosen instantly. “I’ve been trying to avoid them before they seek to recruit me,” Slughorn answers, fingering the lip of his glass. “I’ve been on the move for a year. Muggle house to Muggle house . . . never for longer than a week . . . the owners of this house are in the Canary Islands. The piano is mine, though . . . had to move it in carefully so no one would see.”

“Ingenious, truly.” Dumbledore sets his empty glass down on a nearby coaster. “Darcy happens to be a wonderful musician. Or so I’ve heard. I’ve never had the pleasure of hearing her play, but it is something I quite look forward to.”

Slughorn hums in response, catching Darcy as she blushes.

“However, moving around place to place must be tiring for you. I’m sure Darcy would be happy to tell you—”

“I know what you want Darcy to tell me,” Slughorn snaps, but he doesn’t come across as angry. Darcy can’t help but to think Slughorn rather comical. “You want her to tell me that I’ll be safer and more comfortable at Hogwarts then on the move. Well, save the speech, Potter—”

“—Darcy is a teacher at Hogwarts, and I would greatly appreciate it, Horace, if you addressed and treated her as such.”

Slughorn falters, looking rather taken aback by Dumbledore’s assertion, but he turns slowly to look Darcy in the face, inclining his head at her. “Well . . . I’ve heard rumors of the way you treat your teachers, Albus. Funny things about Dolores Umbridge . . .”

“Professor Umbridge ran afoul of a centaur herd and inflicted regular physical harm to another of my staff. I would hope you would not make the same mistakes.” Dumbledore smiles encouragingly at Darcy and gets to his feet. “Might I use your bathroom?”

Slughorn looks highly disappointed that they won’t be leaving, but directs Dumbledore to the bathroom, leaving the three of them to sit in silence. Darcy takes this time to finish her second drink and sets it aside. She and Slughorn lock eyes for a moment. Darcy doesn’t look away, wanting to make it clear she is not afraid of him. She doesn’t know why it’s so important to her that she establish this now.

“You look very like your mother, you know.”

Darcy knows what he means to say is that she’s beautiful, not that she really looks like her mother. Maybe it’s the dim firelight or the fact that Slughorn only looks at her for no more than three seconds at a time, but Darcy has learned that anyone who makes this comparison, anyone who acknowledges only her red hair and green eyes (and she isn’t sure that Slughorn is able to even discern the color of her eyes with his stolen glances) is someone she’d rather not mingle with.

“And you like your father,” Slughorn adds to Harry. “Except for the eyes. You have—”

“—my mother’s eyes. Yeah, I know.”

Darcy looks sideways at Harry, smiling at him. Slughorn watches on, a small smile forming on his face, as well, albeit an uncomfortable one. “Lily was one of my absolute favorites,” Slughorn explains, softening greatly at the thought of their mother. “A charming, bright, and vivacious girl. Brilliant in Potions.”

“That sounds very like Darcy,” Harry says, making her blush again. “She’s brilliant at Potions, as well.”

This makes Slughorn smile in earnest, and he slumps slightly, making him look more comfortable suddenly in their presence. “I used to tell her she should have been in my House. Slytherin, that is.” His eyes widen slightly. “I hope you don’t hold that against me—!”

“My best friend was a Slytherin,” Darcy retorts flatly.

Slughorn chuckles. “You’ll be Gryffindors then? Like your mother and father?” They both nod. “Usually runs in families. Though not always. I’m sure you’ve heard of Sirius Black? He was a good friend of your father’s. He was a Gryffindor, but I did get his younger brother, Regulus.”

The excitement evident in his voice about collecting Regulus and the disappointment regarding Sirius does not amuse Darcy. “Don’t talk about Sirius Black to me,” she hisses, making Slughorn frown. The last thing she wants is for some kind of idiot collector to be throwing Sirius’ name around as if he hasn’t just died. Darcy half expects Harry to explain away her behavior, but he doesn’t.

Casting about for another topic, Slughorn says, “Your mother was Muggleborn, too, wasn’t she? Thought she might have been pureblood she was so good.”

“One of my best friends is Muggleborn,” Harry answers sharply, and Darcy’s heart gives a prideful leap. “And she’s the best in our year.”

“You mustn’t think I’m prejudiced! No, no! Haven’t I just said she was one of my very favorites?” Slughorn clears his throat, squirming uncomfortably. “Dirk Cresswell—I don’t suppose you know him?” And then his smile is back and he’s on his feet, bouncing in an excited way like Ludo Bagman might. Darcy hates to compare him to Ludo, especially since she was so fond of the latter, though Darcy remembers her dislike of Ludo during their first meeting, and things had only gotten better from there. He points to some pictures upon a shelf. “And there’s Barnabas Cuffe, editor of the _Prophet_ . . . there’s Gwenog Jones of the Holyhead Harpies. She gives me free tickets whenever I want them!”

Darcy sinks back into the sofa, feeling very much like an anxious child. She wishes Dumbledore would come back to take them away. What would he do _really_ if she just walked out the door and Disapparated to the Burrow? She picks at her pants, chewing the inside of her cheek. What is Dumbledore playing at, anyway? Leaving them in here alone with Slughorn . . . why does Dumbledore want such an irritating person at Hogwarts for, anyway? The warmth and snug coziness of the Burrow seems so nice right now . . . they’ve probably got a camp bed set up for her already, with several blankets just how she likes . . .

“All these people know where to find you?” Harry asks, catching Darcy’s attention. “They know where to send you stuff?”

Slughorn smile instantly evaporates from his face. He runs a thick index finger over one of his picture frames, a tarnished silver thing. “No, of course not. I’ve been out of touch with everyone for a year.” Turning on his heels, Slughorn examines Darcy very critically once more. He seems unsure of her, as if he turns his back on her again, she might disappear completely. “Your mother was always so happy to show me pictures of you. Even as a baby, you looked very like her.”

Darcy smiles awkwardly.

“I know why you’re here, of course,” Slughorn continues briskly, his tone much sharper and curt again. “Albus wants me back, but doesn’t even think about the consequences it could cause for me! Taking up a post at Hogwarts would be tantamount to declaring my allegiance to the Order, and—”

“Professor Dumbledore’s said nothing of joining the Order,” Darcy replies, before Harry can offer up a response. He closes his mouth and watches his sister carefully. “He’s asked you to come back and teach. You wouldn’t have to keep moving around like you are, you could get your free Quidditch tickets again, and you’d be safe. Why do you think I’m at Hogwarts, if not to have some form of protection from Voldemort?”

Slughorn shudders, irritating Darcy even more annoyed. Where is Dumbledore? Not only does she find Horace Slughorn selfish and pretentious and a little idiotic, but he seems a coward. Darcy has yet to discover a redeeming quality, and plans to ask Dumbledore immediately what kind of game he thinks this is. She watches him mumble to himself for a moment or two, twirling the ends of his bushy, walrus mustache and beginning to pace back and forth, eyes picking Darcy out to linger for a minute before he looks away again.

“I’ve heard rumors, of course . . .” Slughorn begins again, folding his arms over his chest, able to rest them on the top of his bulging stomach. “Rumors of your involvement with another of your father’s fr—”

Darcy bristles at Slughorn’s audacity. “I don’t see how that is any of your business,” she hisses, trying to keep her temper in check. “Remus is very precious to both Harry and me, and I would prefer we leave him out of this discussion.”

Instead of looking abashed, Slughorn chuckles. “Oho! You are like your mother, aren’t you? She was a spitfire, as well.”

She traces her teeth with her tongue. Harry gives a slight shrug as if to say _he’s right_. “I don’t think you know me well enough to make such an assessment.”

“Clearly not.” Slughorn smiles, a stifled and victorious kind of smile, as if Darcy’s just proved his point. “I bet Severus likes you, doesn’t he?”

“We have a good working relationship.”

It’s then that Dumbledore wanders into the sitting room again with a dazed and distant sort of smile upon his face, hands held behind his back. He raises his eyebrows at both Darcy and Harry, nodding towards the front door. She and her brother nearly jump to their feet immediately, prepared to leave this wretched place. Judging by Harry’s expression and slight scowl, he hasn’t enjoyed this visit anymore than Darcy has.

Slughorn, however, looks absolutely delighted. “You’ve been a very long time,” he says quickly, walking forwards as if to push them out the door.

“I was reading the Muggle magazines,” Dumbledore answers with a soft smile. “Well, Darcy . . . Harry . . . we’ve intruded upon Horace’s hospitality long enough. I know a lost cause when I see one.”

Darcy helps Dumbledore back into his traveling cloak, Harry zips up his jacket, and Slughorn watches them anxiously. He reminds her of Peter Pettigrew, fidgeting uncontrollably, his thumbs twiddling together, his eyes looking watery in the light. His mustache twitches side to side. He grumbles something under his breath.

“I’m sorry you don’t want the job, Horace,” Dumbledore says, placing his uninjured hand on Darcy’s shoulder and shuffling her in front, as if to show her off to Slughorn. “Hogwarts would have been glad to see you back again.”

And with that, they say their goodbyes. Darcy stumbles over the threshold of the front door, huffing and puffing, frustrated beyond belief and a stabbing pain in her temple making everything blurry for a moment. She rubs her forehead, wanting to ask why they’d even come here if Slughorn didn’t even want the job, and she turns to Dumbledore to ask when Slughorn bellows at them from the doorway.

“All right! Fine! I’ll do it!”

Dumbledore gives Darcy another knowing smile before turning around. “Excellent. Then we’ll see you the first of September.”

Slughorn continues to shout demands after them—a pay rise, a bigger living space, a nice office—and Darcy tries to ignore him. She follows Dumbledore back down the garden path, feeling foolish for not trusting Dumbledore to know exactly what he was doing in getting Slughorn back. Still, the fact still stands that Slughorn doesn’t seem the kind of teacher she’d want at Hogwarts, let alone a Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher. Not that she thinks him incapable, but she can’t imagine he’d be a very effective teacher. When Dumbledore asks she and Harry if they liked him, Darcy wastes no time in being honest, giving Dumbledore her very, very honest opinion of him.

Dumbledore only chuckles at her response. “Horace, or Professor Slughorn, is a luxurious man, himself. He enjoys the company of famous, influential, powerful people—” Here, he looks directly at Darcy as she steps up to his side to continue their walk. “He asked why a woman like you might be at Hogwarts. I’m certain that Professor Slughorn believes you would do well to be out in the world using your influence to your advantage. No doubt he thinks your being at Hogwarts is a waste of talent, something I highly disagree with. Teaching is one of the most important jobs in the world, educating young and brilliant and thoughtful minds . . . nevertheless, Professor Slughorn used to pick favorites while he was a teacher, usually students that were charming or ambitious or talented, and those students typically went on to be outstanding in their chosen field, while Professor Slughorn reaped the benefits. Free tickets to Quidditch matches, free boxes of crystallized pineapple . . . you see?”

“Are you not concerned that he’ll attempt to collect _us_?” Darcy asks, her brow furrowed. Dumbledore turns down a side street that Darcy knows will take them back to the village square.

“I’m telling you all of this because I’m certain he will try to collect you,” Dumbledore replies, nodding his head as they approach the empty square again. “I want the both of you to be on your guard. He’ll have both Potters at his disposal . . . Darcy Potter, infamous supporter of werewolf rights and sister to Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived . . . the Chosen One.”

Darcy and Harry’s eyes meet across Dumbledore’s torso as he offers them both his arms. Darcy takes his forearm gently again, trying to keep as firm a grip on him as possible with hurting him, unable to look away from his blackened hand. Harry braces himself for it this time—his jaw set, his eyes closed, holding onto Dumbledore very tightly. Darcy smiles as the three of them disappear into the night with only a crack! left behind, likely startling the sleeping village inhabitants from their beds and causing dogs to bark together, howling at the moon.

Darcy’s ankle twinges when they touch down on solid land again. They’ve appeared directly in the center of the dirt, country lane that leads to the Burrow. At the sight of the tall, crooked structure, something in Darcy shifts without warning. How could have wanted to stay at Privet Drive to visit people she hardly knows over the Weasleys? Darcy hesitates, eyes flicking up and down the house, yellow light glowing from inside a few windows scattered about, and there’s definitely still lights on in the kitchen, where Mrs. Weasley is likely waiting to make them dinner . . .

Her stomach gives a loud rumble, making both Harry and Dumbledore laugh. They start their way down the country lane, Darcy in the lead, her long legs moving quickly, wanting to reach the comforts of the Burrow now, not having to wait any longer. And then about halfway there, Darcy freezes. She shouldn’t be here. She shouldn’t have to be coming to the Burrow to stay the summer. She should be at number twelve, Grimmauld Place. She should be at home with Sirius. They were supposed to be a family—just the three of them, and maybe Gemma and maybe Lupin, too.

Darcy rubs her eyes, catching her tears before they begin to fall, though in the darkness of the small road, she doubts anyone would notice. Harry is the first one to notice that she isn’t at their side anymore, however, and he falls back to approach. Harry—her sweet Harry, her little brother that had wanted a life with Sirius since the truth had come out in the Shrieking Shack all those years ago (has it been so long?). He had been robbed then of that wish, and had been robbed again just a few weeks ago because of . . . _because of me_. While she had been living with Sirius, receiving his love, playing the part of father and daughter, Harry had been stuck at Hogwarts with Umbridge, tortured and hurt under her rule. While Darcy had soaked up all of Sirius’ love and affection and attention, Harry had missed out. _Because of me_.

Harry moves in front of her. He doesn’t seem surprised to see her begin to cry. Darcy shakes her head as Harry’s hands touch her face. It’s such a grown-up thing for him to do, Darcy thinks, reminding herself that he’s going to be _sixteen_ this summer. Not a little boy, not the little boy who would so willingly crawl into her lap for a snuggle, or the little boy who thought the world of her, or the little boy who never saw her tears because she would never let him. Now he’s still a boy, closer to a man, and wiping her tears as if he’s done this a million times before.

“Darcy, it’s all right,” Harry whispers, holding her cheeks as she shakes her head again. “It’s only the Burrow—”

Darcy clutches Harry’s wrists, but he refuses to let go. She claws lightly at the backs of his hands, forgetting that they aren’t alone when a cloud shifts and a sliver of moonlight illuminates Dumbledore’s figure a little ways down the lane, as if he’s purposefully given them plenty of room, but he’s watching with a small smile and a curious expression on his face.

“I can’t,” Darcy breathes, looking Harry in the eyes and forcing herself to ignore Dumbledore’s watchfulness. “Please don’t make me go in there—”

“Why not?” Harry asks, frowning, lowering his hands from her face to her shoulders. “At least Slughorn’s not in there.” Darcy laughs through her tears, a tired laughter, and Harry looks over his shoulder. “Sorry, Professor.”

“You’re not wrong,” Dumbledore chuckles, stepping closer to them, a sympathetic smile on his face. “Come, Darcy. I’d like to speak to you both privately before we go in. Perhaps we could speak first, and then Molly can make you something to eat.”

Darcy opens her mouth to protest, but Harry takes her hand in his and squeezes. She looks down at their twined fingers, wondering if such physical affection embarrasses him at this age, but he chooses to ignore it for her sake. _Of course he’s embarrassed, he’s almost sixteen. No sixteen-year-old boy wants to be coddled_. Darcy slips her hand out of Harry’s sweaty grip, instead wrapping her fingers from both hands around his skinny arm, holding tight as they’re escorted closer to the Burrow by a silent Dumbledore, save for the swishing and ruffling of his thick traveling cloak against the leaf-strewn dirt road.

So close to Harry, she can see the dark, patchy hair growing on his face. Darcy had promised him just a week ago that she would teach him how to shave when the hair grew in more (something Lupin had shown her how to do when she’d shaved his face the first time thinking it was going to be just like shaving her legs). It makes her heart hurt something terrible, knowing that it should have been James to teach him that. It could have been Sirius— _no, I won’t think of him._ Maybe if Lupin were to stop by the Burrow soon, he could teach Harry. Maybe it would be less awkward to have a man show Harry instead of his twenty-year-old sister.

As they near the front door to the Burrow, where light spills from beneath, Dumbledore brings Darcy into an old outhouse, asking Harry to wait a moment for them to finish. The Weasleys’ broomsticks are all inside, and it’s a tight fit, too tight for Darcy’s liking while she’s nearly chest to chest with Dumbledore. He still has to peer down his nose at her, just a few inches taller, and when Darcy feels what must be a spider on the back of her neck, she moves wildly, forcibly reminded of Aragog. Chest heaving, Dumbledore grabs hold of her upper arm and squeezes once to calm her.

“I’ll be quick. I know you’re hungry.” Dumbledore smiles kindly at her. “I know that these past few weeks have been very difficult for you, and it is a touching thing to see Harry caring so deeply for you.”

Darcy smiles in spite of herself. “He’s a sweet boy, sir.”

Dumbledore nods his approval of this statement. “There are a few things I wish to tell you. The first is that, upon your return to Hogwarts, you will no longer be Professor Snape’s apprentice.” Darcy blinks in surprise, but he holds a hand up to stop her from arguing. “Professor Slughorn will be our new Potions Master, and you will be his apprentice. Now—you were going to say something?”

Darcy doesn’t know where to begin. “I don’t _want_ to be Professor Slughorn’s apprentice. Why can’t I be with Professor Snape? Does he not want me anymore?”

She expects Dumbledore to look at her with some sort of pleased exasperation, like he typically does when Professor Snape is the topic of discussion, but he only gives her a very serious look in the darkness. He looks older than usual, and very weary. “I can assure you that Professor Snape has argued his case for bringing you on as his apprentice in his new career. Professor Snape will be our new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher this coming fall, but . . . would it be too much for me to ask that you keep this information to yourself until such time? I am not fool enough to be so oblivious towards Harry’s—and perhaps his friends’—feelings towards him, and it would not be good for them to go into the next school year already dreading classes so terribly.”

Darcy pauses, feeling as if her brain is having a hard time catching up. “He’s not teaching Potions anymore? But . . . why? Why couldn’t Remus teach Defense Against the Dark Arts if you couldn’t find a teacher?”

At this, Dumbledore chuckles again. “It is very important that Professor Slughorn be at Hogwarts, for reasons which I think will be clear later in the year, and I promise that you will not be kept in the dark about these reasons. But you must be patient and, above all, trust me.”

She wonders if he senses her hesitation. _Trust_ Dumbledore? After he’d kept Sirius holed up at Grimmauld Place? After he’d kept her holed up at Grimmauld Place with absolutely no explanation? “Okay,” she whispers. “I trust you.”

“Regardless of whether or not you mean those words . . .” His eyes seem to twinkle, but he isn’t unkind about it. “I also want to speak to you about your working relationship with Professor Snape.”

Darcy blushes furiously, hoping that Snape hadn’t told Dumbledore anything private. “My—?”

“Professor Snape has been put in a particularly difficult situation of late with Lord Voldemort’s return becoming public knowledge. It is no secret to anyone who knows either of you that Professor Snape cares very much for you, and I trust that you can see how his affection for and closeness with a Potter may not be something looked kindly on by some people.”

“By Death Eaters, you mean,” Darcy frowns.

He does not confirm, nor deny it. “If Professor Snape seems cold towards you at times during the year, I don’t want you to be angry with him or take it personally. You mean a great deal to him, and I would hate to see all the progress you’ve made crumble to nothing once more.”

The idea of Snape being cold towards her makes Darcy shudder. She’s been looking forward to seeing him again, to stepping foot into the dungeon classroom with him right on her heels like a lost puppy dog, and now they won’t even share a classroom. “Professor, must I be Professor Slughorn’s apprentice? He’s—forgive me, but . . . he’s _vile_.”

“I understand why you don’t like him,” Dumbledore says gently. “I’ve known you since you were eleven-years-old. Professor Slughorn will like you for all the reasons you detest. He will like you because you are beautiful, because you are famous, because you are talented, and because you are Lily Potter’s daughter.” He leans in close and the tip of his crooked nose is inches from her own. “But it is important and essential that you let him like you. I want you to treat Professor Slughorn like he is Ludo Bagman.”

“And you promise you’ll tell me why it’s so important?”

“In due time, Darcy. Be patient.”

Darcy swallows loudly. “Okay.”

“One more thing,” Dumbledore continues, back to his usual, cheerful manner within seconds. “I know you dislike—or _hate_ would be a proper term here—being caged, but the Ministry of Magic has provided the Burrow with the highest security they can offer. I would ask that you do not wander off the property. However, I and some other members of the Order have provided Remus’ own home with protection, and I see no issue with you visiting if you’d like.”

She smiles. “Thank you, sir.”

“You’re most welcome.” There’s an awkward silence, and Darcy clears her throat, hoping he will open the door and let them out. “Your parents would be very proud of the young woman you’ve blossomed into. I know that Sirius was very proud of you, as well, and he loved you with all he had.”

“Thank you.” Darcy swells with pride as Dumbledore opens the door of the outhouse and she and Harry switch places. Instead of waiting for Harry to finish, Darcy follows the sound of soft clucking from the chickens settling down for the night (she can’t believe how excited she is to feed them again) and steps up to the back door, reaching for the doorknob to find it locked. Sighing, Darcy knocks three times in quick succession.

“Who is it?” Mrs. Weasley’s voice sounds a moment later, and it seems that she’s pressed right up against the door.

“It’s only me, Mrs. Weasley. Professor Dumbledore and Harry are talking for a minute out front, then they’ll be here.”

The door swings open, and Darcy barely has time to register anything before Mrs. Weasley’s arms are wrapped around her. One hand pins Darcy’s face to Mrs. Weasley’s bosom at an awkward angle, knees bent and hunched over, as Mrs. Weasley is a deal shorter than Darcy. Darcy carefully extracts herself, nearly gasping for breath, as Mrs. Weasley’s hands cup her still sticky, tear-stained cheeks a little firmer than probably intended.

“Dumbledore said we shouldn’t expect you until morning,” Mrs. Weasley explains, taking Darcy by the hand and bringing her inside. Someone’s sitting at the kitchen table with brown hair, but Darcy doesn’t get a chance to address them quite yet. “You’re looking too thin . . . would you like some onion soup? Will Harry eat onion soup?”

“Onion soup sounds fantastic,” Darcy answers with a smile, hating herself for how forced her enthusiastic tone is. “Mrs. Weasley, would it be all right if I eat in the living room? I don’t mind sleeping on the sofa. It’s just . . . it’s been a long day.”

“Nonsense,” Mrs. Weasley says sharply, rushing around the kitchen for a cauldron to cook soup in. “You’ll be sleeping in Fred and George’s old bedroom. We’ve set it all up for you.”

“They’re still living in Diagon Alley?” Darcy asks, shrugging out of her jacket and hanging it on a coat rack near the door, slipping out of her boots, caked with mud from the short walk to the Burrow.

“The shop is doing rather wonderfully . . . they’re _flourishing_!” Mrs. Weasley says, a note of pride in her voice that Darcy is sure is relatively new to Fred and George’s mother. “Go on, Darcy, I’ll bring you some soup when it’s ready. Your things are already in the bedroom.”

“Has Max come yet?”

“No. Should we be worried?”

“No,” Darcy says quickly at the look of anxiety on Mrs. Weasley’s face. “I sent him with a letter to Remus, so he’ll probably be another day or so.”

Mrs. Weasley purses her lips, her hands on her hips and a wooden spoon in her right fist, a very stern and maternal expression upon her round face. “I don’t know if Dumbledore told you, but the Ministry is reading all post that comes in and goes out, so _don’t_ —” Mrs. Weasley gives Darcy a playful tap on the arm with the wooden spoon. “—be writing anything _filthy_.”

Darcy can’t help but smile warmly, genuinely. “I won’t. Thanks.” She turns back towards the kitchen table, jumping at the sight of the person now turned around, looking absolutely downtrodden. “Oh, _shit_ —hey, Tonks. I hardly recognized you.”

It’s a fair statement, Darcy thinks. There are shadows under Tonks’ heart-shaped face, and her hair is mousy brown, thin, and lank, hanging just to her shoulders. She lacks the rosiness to her cheeks and her usual air or curiosity and enthusiasm seems to be lacking, as well. There’s a steaming mug of tea clasped between her hands. Skinny shoulders hunched as if shrinking away from Darcy into her own personal space, Tonks seems less like herself than Darcy’s ever known.

“Wotcher, Darcy,” Tonks says without even a smile. “Muggles treat you all right?”

“Yeah,” Darcy replies. “Vernon was more frightened of Mad-Eye than he let on, I suppose.”

“You doing all right?”

“I’m managing.” Darcy expects Tonks to answer, but instead she turns her back on Darcy again and an awkward silence blankets them, save for the knives chopping vegetables and bubbling water in Mrs. Weasley’s cauldron. “Er . . . so, I’ll just go unpack . . . if that’s all right.”

“Go on, dear,” Mrs. Weasley says in a strained voice, ushering Darcy rather quickly from the kitchen to the stairs. “Second floor.”

Darcy climbs the steps by herself, watching Mrs. Weasley over her shoulder disappear into the kitchen again. “Fucking weirdo,” Darcy mutters, hardly making a sound as she tip-toes up the creaky staircase. It makes her feel slightly guilty for thinking it, but Darcy’s rather glad grief hasn’t had the same sorry effect on her that it’s had on Tonks.

_But that can’t be right. Tonks was fine when I saw her on the platform a few weeks ago. What’s changed?_

Regardless, Darcy doesn’t think grief is any reason for Tonks to be cold towards her. After all, Darcy had been closer to Sirius than Tonks had been . . . Darcy had suffered more when Sirius died than Tonks did . . . it’s Darcy’s fault that Sirius is dead, and Tonks doesn’t have to carry around guilt like that. Is it so cruel to think Tonks is being maybe a little bit _dramatic_? If Darcy can still smile and walk around looking moderately happy, can’t Tonks?

_Why are you making it into a competition?_

Because she is competition.

_What the fuck is wrong with you?_

Am I supposed to know?

Fred and George’s bedroom is still set up for two. The twin bed closest to the window has her trunk at the foot of the bed, as well as Max’s empty cage. Several boxes are stacked against the walls, some sealed closed and some open carelessly, filled with prank items of Fred and George’s by the looks of them when Darcy peers inside. There’s a small desk by the window with a vase of nice smelling flowers, and Darcy opens the windows to let in the warm, summer air. The chickens are mostly silent now, but the sound of chirping insects rides the breeze into the room, creating a pleasant atmosphere.

Without even dressing, Darcy crawls into bed, slipping between the blankets and burying her face in her pillow as she hears Mrs. Weasley’s footsteps climbing the stairs, growing closer to the bedroom. The pillow sheet smells earthy in the best way—the scent of the Burrow, the comforting scent of a home away from home (Hogwarts? Remus’? Grimmauld Place? Where is home now?). Darcy rolls over, her back to the door, stilling just as Mrs. Weasley comes in with her dinner. The smell of the onion soup is so good that Darcy almost stops feigning sleep just to eat, but she doesn’t want to talk to Mrs. Weasley.

The tray is set down on the nightstand, judging by the soft clacking of the bowl against the tray. Mrs. Weasley doesn’t leave right away, however. She pulls the blankets higher up on Darcy, strokes her dark red hair with the backs of her freckled and pasty fingers, and then, leans over and kisses Darcy’s head before leaving.

Darcy waits until Mrs. Weasley’s footsteps fade before crying.

* * *

“Looking for the liquor cabinet?”

Darcy jumps nearly a foot off the ground, her heart hammering inside her chest. Her mug of coffee slips from her hand and smashes loudly on the ground, likely loud enough to wake the entire sleeping household. “Bill,” she pants, placing a hand over her heart as a sly smile creeps upon his face. “I wasn’t expecting anyone to be awake . . . what are you doing here so early?”

“Do you always start drinking at—” Bill glances at his watch. “—six-thirty in the morning?”

“Shut up.”

Bill wriggles his eyebrows, fixing Darcy’s mug with magic and pouring her another cup of coffee before giving it back. Then, he reaches across her to a small cabinet near the ceiling, pulling down a half-empty bottle of Ogden’s Firewhisky, pouring a good shot and a half into her coffee and then putting the bottle away again. “Couldn’t resist some homemade breakfast, I guess,” he answers, wrapping Darcy in a one-armed hug. “Thought I’d make a quick stop home before work.”

He hasn’t changed at all since the last time she’s seen him. His flaming red hair is still just as long as Gemma’s, pulled back into a low ponytail to reveal the earring dangling from one of his lobes. Darcy privately thinks it’s a bit goofy, but wouldn’t dare say anything about it to anyone, especially not when Bill has been so sweet and kind to her during the few times they’ve met.

“Doing all right?” Darcy asks.

“Happily engaged.”

Darcy blinks in surprise, blushing. “I’m sorry, did—did I come on too strong?”

Bill laughs heartily. “No, not at all. Quite a friendly welcome, in fact.” He glances about the kitchen, moving a little closer to Darcy and lowering his voice. “It’s no secret mum isn’t exactly thrilled about the engagement. She’s been dropping hints for about a year now about you, actually, and er—well I hope I’m not embarrassing you, but you’re not really my type, Darcy, and I don’t want mum to embarrass you, either.”

“Quite understandable,” Darcy chuckles, sipping her coffee. “Not everyone is ready to take on a deeply scarred and traumatized woman like myself.”

“I didn’t mean it like that!” Bill swats her arm, shaking his head and grinning mischievously. “Deeply scarred and traumatized women, I can handle. I am a Cursebreaker, you know. Believe it or not, however, I have a thing about not marrying a redhead. You’ll understand, of course?”

“Well, consider my dreams of marrying you, Bill, officially crushed. I’m absolutely heartbroken.”

“Luckily for you, I’ve several other brothers for you to choose from. I’ll put in a good word for you with Charlie.”

“Appreciated, but unnecessary. I’ve had enough of you Weasleys.” They both share another quiet laugh. The firewhisky drips down her gullet, warm all the down into her stomach. “Congratulations, truly. Who is the lucky woman, anyway?”

“You remember Fleur, don’t you?”

Darcy raises her eyebrows, unable to think for a moment. “Fleur Delacour? Are you taking the piss right now?”

“No,” Bill replies, tucking a loose strand of hair behind his ear. “If I was going to lie about my future wife, I’d have said it was going to be Celestina Warbeck, or that really muscular Chaser from the Harpies—you must know the one.”

“You’re serious? You’re really marrying Fleur Delacour?”

Bill laughs again, nodding his head towards the stairs, where someone seems to be moving down them. “Ask her yourself if you don’t believe me.”

Darcy turns just in time to see—sure enough—Fleur Delacour walking into the kitchen in a graceful way that Darcy wishes she could encompass. It’s easy to forget that Fleur is so young, especially being so beautiful. Already, at hardly seven in the morning, her long, blonde hair is brushed and kept out of her face with a sparkling headband, her blue eyes seemingly open wide as if in a permanent state of shock. Not that Darcy has anything against Fleur, but the young girl’s beauty and apparent confidence makes Darcy feel gangly and awkward and fiercely inadequate.

Whatever greeting Darcy is expecting from Fleur, it is not this—a warm welcome reminiscent of two lifelong friends who’ve just reunited after years of being on separate paths. Fleur hugs Darcy almost just as tight as Mrs. Weasley had the night before and then kisses both of her cheeks. “Zey told me you were going to be ‘ere, and I was so ‘appy to see you!”

“Oh!” Darcy says breathlessly, slightly touched by what seems to be genuine enthusiasm at her appearance. “Thank you. Could I—” She looks over her shoulder sheepishly at Bill, who’s grinning, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed over his chest. “Could I see the ring?”

Fleur wastes no time, clearly not embarrassed to show it off. She holds her left hand out in front of Darcy, beaming beautifully, and Darcy can’t help but smile at the sight of it. It’s a beautiful diamond ring with a slim, silver band, gleaming in the kitchen lighting. It fits perfectly on Fleur’s slender and bony finger.

“It’s beautiful,” Darcy says, and Fleur lowers her hand, giving a modest shrug. “Have you set a date?”

“Next summer,” Fleur replies excitedly. “I ‘ave been working part-time at Gringotts to better my Eenglish, and Bill ‘as so graciously allowed me to stay ‘ere for a few days to get to know his family.”

“That’s wonderful,” Darcy says, hoping her happiness doesn’t sound too forced. “I’m really happy for the two of you.”

“Eet will be nice to ‘ave another woman ‘ere who is so close to me in age,” Fleur confesses, seeming almost a little girl with her bashful smile. “Bill’s mother ‘as invited that Tonks around, but she ees no fun lately . . . ‘as really let ‘erself go . . .”

Bill clears his throat and Fleur blushes very prettily. Darcy looks from one to the other, feeling very out of place and uncomfortable. She looks hopefully towards Bill, setting her finished coffee on the counter and feeling pleasantly warm due to the alcohol. “Could I feed the chickens?”

Bill chuckles. “Yeah. Here, come on, I’ll show you where everything is. I’ll be right back, Fleur.”

Fleur lets them leave without another word, and Darcy follows Bill out back. The morning is crisp, and without a jacket on, goosebumps rise on her skin even through the long sleeves of her shirt. Bill shows Darcy the coop, where she can find food, and introduces her to the smallest chicken that he’d urged his father to save after it had been born ‘not quite right’, and lets her know that particular chicken is fond of eating beans out of someone’s hand. Along with the chicken feed is some scraps from yesterday’s lunch and dinner.

“There’s likely some eggs you can collect, if you’d like, or you can leave them for mum or one of us to get,” Bill finishes. “I’ll let her know you’re out here. She’ll probably be up any minute to care for the chickens.”

“Thanks,” Darcy says, feeling childish amongst all of the chickens. “Is your dad at work?”

“Probably. Ever since You-Know-Who’s been back—officially, that is—he’s been working like crazy. He just recently got a promotion, did you know?”

Darcy smiles. “Really? _Wow_ —what’s he doing now?”

“He’s heading the Office for the Detection and Confiscation of Counterfeit Defensive Spells and Protective Objects. It’s like they wanted to give the department the longest name in Ministry history.”

She laughs. “He deserves it, truly. Your father is a good man. A great man.”

Bill’s favorite chicken wanders over to him with a sense of familiarity and comfort, squawking at him almost expectantly. He reaches over Darcy’s head for the can of beans and dumps some into her hand. “Go on. Try.”

Hesitantly, Darcy kneels in front of the chicken. It watches her for a moment, cocking its head left and right before pecking at the beans in the palm of her hand. “What’s his name?”

“Percy.”

Darcy laughs out loud, startling the chicken. It hops away from her, but other chickens start towards her hopefully. She blushes upon realizing Bill is still watching her rather intently, the smile faded from his face.

“You doing all right, Darcy?”

She glances quickly at him, scattering the beans across the ground and standing back up. She sees no reason why she can’t be honest with him. “Some days are harder than others,” Darcy says. “But I’m alive.”

“Alive is good for now. No one expects you to be really okay, I don’t think.” Bill sniffs as a draft blows in the coop. “You’re like a little sister to me, Darcy. I know you take care of Ron like he’s your own brother, and I could never thank you and Harry enough for saving Ginny.”

“It’s nothing. You would do the same for Harry.”

“I would.” He pauses, turning around to face her. Bill sighs heavily, giving her a weak smile. “You’ve lived a hard life. No one expects you to be smiling or laughing right now. You don’t have to pretend here. You’re here so we all can take care of you.”

Darcy looks away pointedly, swallowing the lump in her throat as the tears begin to build painfully behind her eyes. “Thanks, Bill.”

“Well, I’ll leave you to your work.” He claps a hand on his shoulder as he passes. “Make sure you give Percy a few extra beans for me.”

* * *

“All right! All right! Let me see!” Darcy clears her throat dramatically as the kids climb up onto the sofa around her, Harry squeezed in beside the arm and Darcy, Ron leaning over her shoulder from behind, Hermione nearly in her lap, and Ginny hovering at Hermione’s shoulder. Darcy opens the parchment—still in a very dramatic fashion—and reads. “Harry James Potter has achieved . . .”

His O.W.L. results are spectacular, and she makes sure to tell him so. His only Outstanding is in Defense Against the Dark Arts, but he passes Potions, Transfiguration, Charms, Herbology, Care of Magical Creatures, and Astronomy. Harry beams with a certain pride as she finishes reading his results.

“Oh, _Harry_ —this is really fantastic!” Darcy ruffles his hair, placing a hand on his far cheek to pull his face towards her. She kisses Harry’s cheek, making him blush, but his smile doesn’t falter even slightly. A kind of pride burns white hot in her chest, her heart swelling with love. “Remus will be really pleased you’ve gotten an O in Defense! Go on, love, ask for anything and it’s yours.”

Harry scrunches his nose, chuckling. “I don’t know. I’ve got money of my own.”

“Yes, but I’ve told you, I don’t want you making any big purchases with mum and dad’s money until you’re out of Hogwarts.” She hands him back his O.W.L. results as Ron forces his own into her now empty hands. “Think on it and get back to me, all right?”

Ron has passed everything except Divination and History of Magic, but there are no Outstandings.

“Seven O.W.L.’s is very impressive, Ron,” Darcy smiles, passing them behind her. “I’m proud of you. Would you like a kiss, as well?”

“I’ll pass on the kiss, but I wouldn’t mind a reward,” he answers, and when Darcy looks up at him, there’s a cheeky grin on his face.

“What do you want?”

Ron’s smile broadens. “Can I think about it and get back to you?”

“Does that mean if I get some O.W.L.’s next summer, you’ll buy me something, too?” Ginny teases, and Darcy clutches her heart, faking exasperation. “Incentive and all that.”

“You guys are killing me, you know that? You think I’m made of money or what?”

Ginny punches Darcy’s shoulder lightly. “Did you see Hermione’s yet? She’s gotten all O’s.”

Darcy blinks in surprise. “Did you really?”

Hermione flushes, holding out her results for Darcy to look at. “Not all O’s.”

The only subject she hasn’t gotten an O in Defense Against the Dark Arts, but even there she’s gotten an E. “Brilliant, Hermione—really,” Darcy says, and Hermione blushes harder, unable to hide her toothy smile. “Would you like a kiss and a gift, as well?”

“Just let me borrow any book I want from you whenever I want, would you?” Hermione asks.

Darcy laughs. “I think we can work something out.” She stretches obnoxiously and pushes herself to her feet. “All right, party’s over.” She gives Ron’s hair a good ruffle. “I’ve told your mum I’d help cook dinner.”

“Come play Quidditch with us,” Ginny insists, tugging at Darcy’s arm. “We’ve got an old broom you can borrow.”

Darcy shrugs. “Tempting, but unfortunately, I’m dead awful on a broom.” They follow her into the kitchen, where she promptly shuffles them out the back door. “I’ll call you for dinner. _Don’t_ come in covered in filth.”


	4. Chapter 4

“Go put your clothes away, Harry. You’ve been here two days and your clothes are strewn all over Ron’s bedroom,” Darcy says distractedly, chopping an onion on the trestle table in the middle of the kitchen, her eyes stinging. “There’s an empty drawer in Fred and George’s room I’m not using.”

“Fine,” he says, beginning the leap up the first few stairs and disappearing from view.

Ron kicks off his mud-caked boots, strolling through the kitchen after Harry, cocking an eyebrow as he passes Darcy. “You know you’re a witch, right?”

“I know. Go help Harry before I hex you and prove it.”

“All right. What’ve you got for me?”

Darcy passes him a roll, still warm, and Ron grins at her, running up the stairs.

“It’s like you’re a cattle-herder,” Mrs. Weasley jokes, sweating slightly over her saucepan. She mops her forehead with the bottom of her apron. “Do those children always listen so well to you?”

“Never,” Darcy laughs, wiping her eyes on her sleeve and sniffling. She takes a step back from the onion, allowing her body to flush her eyes out. “The perk of people being afraid you’ll randomly break down without warning is that they’ll do anything you tell them to.”

“Darcy, I’ve been meaning to ask you . . .” Mrs. Weasley sounds nervous and Darcy steps back to her onion to distract her mind. “What do you think of Fleur?”

“Oh!” Darcy pauses, her eyes burning again, tears streaming down her face. “She’s great. I like her.” She looks carefully over her should to gauge Mrs. Weasley’s reaction—her wide body has tensed considerably, and she turns to face Darcy with a tight-lipped expression. “I’m sorry—did she do something to . . . offend you?”

Mrs. Weasley looks severe, and almost as if she’s been waiting to say this. “I just don’t think Fleur is the right woman for Bill . . . you know they’ve only been together for a year. Don’t you think they’re . . . rushing into things?” She sighs, pursing her lips, deep in thought. “Bill needs a girl like you. I could speak with him about you, if you’d like?”

“ _No_ —please, Mrs. Weasley—I mean, thank you very much, but, er . . .” Darcy’s cheeks burn with embarrassment. Even Bill’s vague warning about his mother embarrassing her has not prepared Darcy for this in the slightest. “A year is enough time for people to get to know each other. I mean . . . if that’s what they want, then . . . you know. And Fleur’s smart and adventurous and . . . pretty.”

“Sounds like the two of you will get along just fine, then.” There’s a bitterness to Mrs. Weasley’s tone that Darcy doesn’t fail to catch.

Privately, Darcy thinks Mrs. Weasley sounds slightly jealous, but she can’t think of a decent recent as to why she should be. While Fleur may be overbearing and blunt, it’s clear that she loves Bill very much, and Darcy’s only seen them together a handful of times over the weekend. Isn’t that enough? If Darcy were to be engaged to marry, would Mrs. Weasley be so critical, as well? Or is it only because it’s her first son that’s being handed off to another woman that’s bothering her? Why does it matter so much to Darcy in the first place?

Darcy is saved the trouble of answering, however, when someone knocks twice on the back door before it swings wide open. She seizes on the opportunity to back away from the onion now that there’s a perfect distraction, but she freezes at the sight that greets her, a smile creeping on her face.

There’s Gemma, with an arrogant beauty about her to match Fleur’s, half of her short, dark hair pulled up on top of her head, revealing ears full of earrings. It almost shocks Darcy how much Gemma looks like a Muggle, in just a tight-fitting pair of jeans and a dark green tank top with a modest cut. She looks positively delighted to see Darcy, her eyes gleaming, smiling from ear to ear, and she steps aside as someone walks through the door behind her.

Wiping his dirty shoes on the already filthy rug right inside the kitchen (dirty thanks to the kids’ constant comings and goings), he moves quickly past Gemma and towards Mrs. Weasley, opening his mouth to speak when he catches sight of Darcy out of the corner of his eye. Lupin stops dead in the center of the kitchen, his brow furrowing at the sight of her.

“Darcy, I—what’s wrong? Why are you crying?” He sounds breathless, as if the very sight of her has knocked the wind out of him. Darcy only smiles shyly, wiping her eyes.

“I’m cutting onions, you idiot,” she teases.

Lupin visibly relaxes, chuckling to himself. Darcy allows herself a moment to look him over—or perhaps to absolutely check him out in full view of Mrs. Weasley and Gemma. As his own eyes flick up and down her body once—twice—his cheeks turn slightly pink and he combs his fingers through his messy and distinctly ruffled hair, streaked liberally with gray, in an attempt to get it out of his face. The hair on his face hasn’t had time to grow in yet, hardly more than a shadow, but enough to hide several smaller scars around his lips and on his jaw. Even in the summer heat, he’s wearing a long-sleeved button down shirt, the sleeves rolled up just enough to reveal his forearms, but not enough to reveal the bite mark that Darcy knows is there.

“When did you get here?” Lupin asks, sounding far too curious for his own good.

“Late Friday night. Where’d you leave my owl?”

He combs his hair back again, clearing his throat, oblivious to the threatening look Mrs. Weasley is giving him. “I just sent him back with a letter a few hours ago.”

The two of them don’t linger. Lupin delivers some news about Mr. Weasley to Mrs. Weasley in low voices in the living room as Gemma watches Darcy finish the broth she’s been making by dumping the cut onions into a large cauldron over the fire. It bubbles loudly, smelling like the best thing Darcy’s ever going to eat. In rather a hurry, Gemma apologizes as Lupin and Mrs. Weasley re-emerge into the kitchen, explaining to Darcy that she and Lupin are meeting with Liam in regards to a pack that’s been dropping like flies due to lack of medical attention and care. Darcy is heartbroken at the idea and doesn’t blame them when they take their leave a minute later.

Lupin does make sure to catch Darcy’s eye on the way out, still grinning even as Gemma pushes him out the door when he decides to stop abruptly before crossing the threshold, causing her to walk right into his back.

After that, Lupin starts to show up more often. He doesn’t bother keeping his distance, as the time they’re able to spend face to face is limited, thanks to Mrs. Weasley. She seems to be trying her hardest to be keeping them apart, but Mr. Weasley seems to be able to distract her rather well whenever Lupin is around, or one of her own children ask for help with the chickens to give Darcy and Lupin some alone time. It’s never a very long time they get, and it’s not nearly long enough for Darcy to confide in Lupin how she’s really been feeling about Sirius. The time spent together is mostly shy smiles, or Lupin offering her help with whatever it is she’s doing before he’s due somewhere else again.

“Could you reach that glass up there for me?” Darcy asks him the second time he shows up to deliver some sorry news about a gruesome murder in the very heart of London that had been accompanied by a Dark Mark set over the flat.

Lupin looks up at the highest shelf in the kitchen, where a single glass sits high above many other perfectly fine glasses. He smiles when she doesn’t move away, forcing him to brush his chest against her back when he reaches for the glass and hands it to her. “Anything else?” he says.

On a whim, wondering if he’ll actually do as she asks, blushing so hard that it hurts, Darcy asks breathlessly, “Can you put the water on to boil?”

A sly smile tugs at the corners of his lips, but he does as she asks, painstakingly and purposefully slowly. When he finishes, he claps his hands together to brush them off, raising his eyebrows. “Is that it?”

“For today.”

The third time he shows up is two days after that, and Darcy asks if he’ll show Harry how to shave. Harry is rather uncomfortable with the idea at first, but goes along with it, and Darcy leans against the threshold of the bathroom door while they stand before the long mirror, both shaving their faces clean. The sight makes her so full of love that she thinks she might burst—Lupin playing the father that Harry never had, giving Harry advice on man things that wouldn’t be quite right coming from her. It’s a perfect scene, she thinks, and before they finish, she even takes a picture, despite the protests coming from both of them. She gives Harry an approving tap on his cheek before allowing him to go back downstairs, but Lupin hesitates before leaving, allowing Darcy to wipe a smudge of shaving cream off his neck with a hand towel.

“What would we do without you?” she smiles, making Lupin blush, but very handsomely so. “Thank you for helping him.”

Lupin’s mouth twitches. “Anything for you.”

The fourth time he shows up to the Burrow, Darcy is only just coming down for breakfast a little late. She stretches her arms high above her head as she enters the kitchen, exposing a slight amount of her midriff, and upon finding Lupin in the kitchen already, his eyes flick to her exposed skin. Whatever he’d been saying to Bill is forgotten.

“Hi, Darcy,” he says breathlessly, and everyone seems to quiet, looking from him to Darcy. Harry and Ron clear their throats and continue to eat noisily. Something about the way Lupin holds himself in that moment, wide-eyed and excited, makes him seem no more than fifteen-years-old, but Darcy likes it, this youthfulness about him despite all that’s happened recently.

“Hi,” Darcy answers with a shy smile, her cheeks coloring as she sits beside Hermione at the table.

The fifth time is the same day as the fourth, but it’s as Darcy, Emily, and Gemma are setting the long table outdoors for dinner. There’s no way to fit everyone inside, especially with a large amount of guests with them. As Darcy reaches for some plates in the kitchen, Lupin mutters something in Mrs. Weasley’s ear, keeping his eyes fixed on Darcy, watching every small motion and occasionally wandering .

After listening, Mrs. Weasley frowns, casting Darcy a furtive look. “Remus, you’ve already told us that before,” she tells him pointedly.

“Oh, right,” Lupin says, a lopsided grin on his face as Darcy turns around with the plates. Gemma uses her wand to make them trail after her, leaving Darcy to collect silverware. “You know how it is, Molly, keeping up with—”

“Would you like to stay for dinner, Remus?” Darcy asks, tilting her head slightly and smiling bashfully.

Lupin considers her, rubbing the back of his neck, apparently not feeling Mrs. Weasley’s eyes boring a hole in the back of his head. “I wouldn’t want to intrude.”

“You wouldn’t be,” Darcy continues, holding out a handful of forks for him to take. Their hands brush just briefly and Darcy wonders if his skin burns hot like hers does at the contact. “There’s plenty of food.”

The back door flings open and Mrs. Weasley is momentarily distracted, telling Ron off for slamming the door too hard. Harry, Hermione (still with a black eye after messing about with one of Fred and George’s unfinished items), and Ginny trail in after, dripping in sweat and looking windswept after a game of Quidditch in the backyard. Darcy stops them, beckoning Harry closer. He obliges.

“Tell Remus the good news about your O.W.L. results,” she insists, and Harry looks half-ready to complain, but does end up telling Lupin about his Outstanding grade in Defense Against the Dark Arts.

Lupin’s face brightens immediately, and Darcy melts as he offers Harry congratulations and they shake hands. The boyish enthusiasm in his face and in his eyes is infectious, his smile absolutely contagious, spreading its warmth throughout her entire body. She suddenly feels the need to drop everything in her hands and wrap her arms around his neck and kiss him, and the stark realization that she hasn’t even hugged him yet is strange. Throughout all of his short visits, Lupin has shown her a level of intimacy through nothing but smiles across a crowded kitchen, punch drunk looks while he thinks no one is looking. He’s hardly touched her except for a few accidental bumps of their hands and shoulders, or his arm grazing her back when he reaches behind her for something.

It makes Darcy sick with love, and she welcomes it graciously and with open arms, pleading for her love for him to overpower the feelings of guilt and hurt and sadness that have been shoved aside while distracted at the Burrow with cooking and cleaning and playing mother hen to the other kids inside the house who refuse to heed their own mother. Emily teases her for staring after him whenever he moves about the Burrow or comes and goes, Gemma teases him (loudly, at times) for staring at places that are certainly not appropriate, never failing to make him flush a deep crimson and scowl at her.

“Go wash up. Dinner’s almost ready,” Darcy tells everyone as Harry rejoins his friends, feeling slightly flushed. “And Ron, change your shirt. You can’t sit at dinner with mud all over you.”

“I can too,” Ron argues with a shit-eating grin. “But I guess I’ll change, if it makes you happy.”

“It _will_ make me happy. Hermione, make sure you put your laundry in Fred and George’s room and I’ll do it tonight, all right?”

Hermione seems pleased by this. “All right.”

As they trample from the kitchen like a herd of elephants, Lupin chuckles. “You’d make a good mother, you know.”

“You’re only saying that.”

“I wouldn’t say it if it weren’t true.”

There’s a swooping sensation in her stomach that suddenly snatches the happiness that had just dangled in front of her so readily. Darcy feels the wind get knocked out of her, nearly gasping for breath, and it’s then that Lupin realizes something is wrong. His cheerful and fond smile disappears and, judging by the expression on his face, he’s reverted back to Remus Lupin, James’ old friend and obligated caretaker of both Darcy and Harry. The way he touches her then is a solid hint that this is, in fact, what is taking place, for there is no sheepishness in this touch, no shy flirting, only genuine concern. Everything about his demeanor changes, and Darcy knows why—he’s likely still on edge himself what with Sirius dying.

Lupin’s fingers clamp tight around her upper arm. “Are you all right? You look like you’re going to pass out.”

Darcy’s eyes search his face for an answer. _Am I all right_? Her heart races painfully, and she shakes her head. “I just need some air. Start without me.” She goes to move, but Lupin doesn’t let go. Darcy glances quickly to Mrs. Weasley and back to his face. “Please let go of me.”

“Darcy . . .” he murmurs, clearly trying to not be overheard. Lupin clenches his jaw, exhaling through his nose and moving his face closer to hers. “Talk to me,” he rasps, a pleasing sort of tone.

She swallows loudly, looking away from him, forcing herself to avoid eye contact. “Please let go. You can start dinner without me.”

Finally, he releases her as Mrs. Weasley approaches to intervene. Darcy escapes her clutches just barely, feeling very practiced at it after escaping Vernon for as long as she can remember. Darcy leaves both of them bewildered in the kitchen, running up the stairs and throwing herself into the bathroom. She locks the door, knowing very well such a thing is useless in a house full of magic user, and looks in the mirror, feeling attacked by the surge of thoughts that make her brain swell painfully inside her head, causing her temples to throb, her forehead to ache.

_He doesn’t know. He didn’t mean anything by it._

Now that she’s alone, and Lupin has—accidentally and completely unknowingly—brought up one of the most sensitive subjects for her, Darcy’s mind is assaulted with all of the things that she’s pushed to the side over the past few weeks while she’s been with the Tuttles and with the Weasleys. She’s been hovering and micromanaging those kids since arriving at the Burrow, and it has nothing to do with her wanting to pretend at being a mother right now, it’s just . . . that’s how she’d coped last time. Darcy had put all of her energy into caring for Harry, to keep her hands busy and her mind, and now she’s doing the same thing. But she feels she must take advantage of this scenario—the scenario where they’re all listening to her, full of a certain respect for her. When will this ever happen again? Harry’s almost a grown man and done with Hogwarts, and once Harry’s surpassed the age that’s appropriate for his older sister to pester him, Darcy will never have another child to fuss and coo over.

The longer she looks at herself in the mirror, the more she sees James. The longer she sees James, the more she thinks of Sirius. The more she thinks of Sirius, the worse it gets. Visions of his handsomely shocked face before falling through the veil, the voices that continue to call to her, that are lodged and buried deep in some as yet unknown part of her brain, the tingling feeling that Darcy associated with torturing Bellatrix Lestrange. What would Lupin think if she told him she’d successfully cast the Cruciatus Curse and _enjoyed_ it? It’s not as if Darcy’s never seen the darker side of him—after all, he’d been prepared to murder Peter Pettigrew in the Shrieking Shack, and she’d been prepared to watch it all happen. That murder would have been justified, just as Darcy’s torture of Bellatrix was justified. Entirely. Completely. Justified. Yes, she thinks, justified. _We aren’t bad people. But will he see it that way? Would he still look at me like he does? Why would he?_

Darcy lowers herself to the ground, her back against the porcelain, claw-foot bathtub, holding her knees to her chest. She rubs her eyes hard with the palm of her hand, using her knuckles to make herself see stars. The idea of telling Lupin her deepest secrets is frightening, something she’s never felt about him before. Before, when he was only Professor Lupin, Darcy had talked and talked and talked about her feelings of resentment towards Harry, which had been her deepest secret. She’d told him about her feelings for and dreams of Sirius with relative ease, being so comfortable with him.

But how is she ever supposed to tell him that she can’t have children, or that she enjoyed torturing someone and would do it again if faced with the decision? Because there is no doubt in Darcy’s mind that, if face to face with Bellatrix again, she would jump at the opportunity to hurt her, to see her hurt the way Sirius was, to possibly kill her if she could. It’s a gruesome thought—murder—but Darcy thinks of many people she’d like to kill, now that she thinks about it. Bellatrix Lestrange would be one of them, Kreacher another, and disgusting, sniveling, Peter Pettigrew. What she wouldn’t give to see the three of them hurt, to atone for their sins. But even just hurt would not be atonement enough, she thinks to herself. To completely and fully atone for their actions, Darcy thinks the only way for them to pay for their sins is to die—the way Sirius died, the way her parents died.

The lock on the door opens with a soft and satisfying _click_! and it’s pushed open slowly. Darcy looks up, expecting to see Lupin or Gemma or Emily or even Harry, but it’s Mr. Weasley, smiling sympathetically down at her. He closes the door behind him, sitting down beside her with many popping and cracking noises due to his joints, grunting as he comes to sit on the floor. He sighs heavily, giving her knee and quick, fatherly pat, shoulder to shoulder with her.

“What are you doing up here when all of your friends are down there eating the delicious dinner you helped cook?” he asks, trying his best to sound cheerful, but still not bothering to hide a note of sadness in his voice.

“I’m not hungry anymore,” Darcy says, right as her stomach growls. Mr. Weasley pretends not to hear. After a moment of quiet, she croaks, “I’m having a hard time.”

“We know, and I’m glad you’re acknowledging it,” he answers. Darcy feels she can’t look him in the eyes. To look him in the eyes would be to open her soul bare for him, and she isn’t ready for that. Instead she stares down at her feet, covered with years old, faded striped socks. “I hear you crying in your sleep at night, and yet you wake up and play mother to those children as if nothing’s happened. No one’s asking you to do that.”

“I’m not doing it because I was asked,” Darcy says. “I’m doing it because Harry needs me to—”

“Or maybe you’re doing it because you need to.”

“What are you? My therapist?” Darcy knows her words are angry and biting, but she doesn’t appreciate her brains being picked. “Making sure Harry is cared for and all right keeps me from having to worry about everything myself.”

Mr. Weasley smiles, taking his glasses off to wipe them with his shirt. “There are plenty of people here to take care of Harry. You should be taking this time to start the healing process before you return to Hogwarts this fall.”

Darcy sighs. “I don’t know how to heal.” It feels so good to say to, to admit it outloud to someone who won’t think differently of her. The tears come quickly and she hides her face behind her hands. “I don’t know how . . . no one ever showed me . . .” It’s true—if Aunt Petunia ever grieved for her sister, it was behind closed doors or far away from Darcy. “This is all I know to do.”

“Darcy, you are not the only person grieving for someone that was very close to you.” Mr. Weasley hands her a handkerchief to wipe her eyes with. Darcy only holds it to her face, feeling very ashamed. “Listen, I know that Molly has been . . . reluctant . . . to allow whatever is happening between you and Remus to continue, but if he brings you comfort, he is more than welcome here.”

For some reason, the idea of talking to Lupin about Sirius makes Darcy wary. She sighs, running a hand through her hair, wiping her face, and squeezing Mr. Weasley’s handkerchief right in her fist. “It hurts,” she confesses. “It hurts so bad.”

“I know.”

Darcy has a feeling that he does know, that he isn’t lying. She curls up beside him and rests her cheek against his shoulder, crying softly. Mr. Weasley drapes an arm around her shoulders, holding her. It hurts to know Sirius will no longer hold her like this, that she will no longer have her own home. Being at the Burrow is a painful reminder that Mr. Weasley is already someone’s father—multiple people’s father—and she’s nothing but an outsider, an intruder on this happy family’s life, inconveniencing them and troubling them.

But if Mr. Weasley is going to be a father to her now, if he is going to offer her comfort now—this stolen moment inside a tiny bathroom while his family eats dinner with her friends and brother outside—then she’ll take it.

* * *

It’s not half as embarrassing returning to the dinner table as she thought it would be. There’s an empty seat between Lupin and Gemma that Darcy takes. Gemma, locked in deep conversation with Bill, on her other side, doesn’t even acknowledge that Darcy has slipped into the chair—in fact, everyone pretends not to notice. She prefers it that way. Lupin, however, takes her empty plate and begins to load it with food, including a piece of meat from his own plate.

“I saved you the rarest piece,” he mutters, placing a now full plate back in front of her.

“Thank you.”

Lupin watches her intently as she prepares to cut into her meat. “Are you all right?”

“Yes,” she answers breathlessly, staring fixedly at her food. “Just needed a good cry.”

“I hope it was nothing I did,” he says apologetically, looking rather nervous. “I didn’t mean to . . . did I—?”

“No. You’ve done nothing wrong.” Beneath the table, Darcy catches his hand. He flinches, but doesn’t pull away, and they both squeeze for a moment before letting go.

Lupin smiles fondly at her, his eyes crinkling. A warm and easy and cool smile that sets butterflies to her stomach. “Do you feel better now?”

“Much better.” It’s the truth.

He’s quiet for a moment, eyes scanning the table before falling on her again, that damned smile still on his face. It’s amazing to Darcy how easily it seems to come to him. “I heard you met Slughorn,” he says softly, resuming his own dinner. Darcy feels Gemma’s hand momentarily squeeze her shoulder. “He taught me, you know. What did you think of him?”

Darcy and Lupin spend the rest of the time quietly abusing Slughorn, speaking almost directly into each other’s ears. He’s able to make her laugh, even with her puffy and swollen eyes and blotchy cheeks. Once, she catches Harry’s eye across the table and he grins at her, eyes flicking knowingly from Darcy to Lupin and back again. She blushes, but Lupin hardly notices, dutifully avoiding Mrs. Weasley’s hard stare.

Gemma and Emily linger for a little longer after dinner. The three of them drink wine in Fred and George’s room while flipping through old copies of _Witch Weekly_ , some Muggle music magazines Emily’s brought that Darcy is particularly interested in.

To her great pleasure, no one speaks of Sirius, something Darcy cannot express her gratitude for properly. It seems as if it’s already out in the open, that the three of them recognize each other’s grieving. Darcy knows they are all grieving in a different, but genuine way—herself for the loss of the closest thing to her father she’d only just been gifted; Gemma for a love that hadn’t been given time or circumstance to blossom; and Emily for a man she’d been so enamoured by, that she’d so admired. The grief hangs heavy in the room, and Darcy shudders at the thought of being alone with Lupin again, shudders at the thought of the grief that would weigh on the both of them so palpably in the room. She’d felt it with Harry, and it was near unbearable at times.

Darcy knows how it might feel. The same way both she and Lupin had felt upon meeting each other for the first time. The silences between them had always been heavy and loaded. She had been a forcible reminder of James and Lily to him, and Lupin a reminder of James and Lily to her. It had been such a cruel thing, to have to constantly be reminded of such trauma every time she looked at him. She didn’t want to look at Lupin and feel anything other than love, admiration, arousal—anything less than happiness. She still doesn’t. And it worries her. To think that she might look at Lupin for the rest of her life and be able to think of nothing but the painful loss of both her parents and Sirius.

And especially, she doesn’t want Lupin to look at her and hurt. The thought is shameful. Darcy doesn’t ever want to cause him hurt, especially because of the way he looks. Her hair, her eyes, her nose and lips and even her jawline—she’s sure that Lupin can pick out the exact features that belonged to her father, to her mother, and her own personal features—and not to mention the scars on her shoulder that already humiliate and shame him whenever she takes her shirt off.

Darcy looks up from her magazine to find Gemma looking right at her with a gaze that seems to penetrate her very soul. If she didn’t know any better, she’d think Gemma was performing Legilimency on her. The thought makes her heart give a painful ache for Professor Snape.

The thought of him also makes her blush. The way they’d parted, with the knowledge that Darcy had allowed Snape to touch her. His hand had cupped her breast with reluctance and hesitation, a stifled eagerness. How far would she really have allowed things to go? Would she have allowed Snape to fuck her if he wanted? The worst thing to think of is—would she have enjoyed it? Would she have moaned softly for him like she does for Lupin? Would she have wanted his mouth everywhere just like she craves Lupin’s? It’s hard to imagine Snape’s body beneath those robes, unmarred and smooth and lean. Darcy much prefers Lupin’s body—rough to the touch, littered with scars that know Darcy’s kisses well, muscled and toned compared to the lanky thing he’d been on the Hogwarts Express.

His body has always been a great source of pleasure for her—long legs and the cute little way his torso gives way to hips that are almost feminine, enough to give contrast to the more masculine qualities about him. Darcy likes the patchy way that his hair grows in—on his face, on his chest, the small strip that trails down from his navel—almost red in color in a way the hair on his head isn’t. She sighs contently as she flips through a page, remembering with a jolt that Lupin is still downstairs, talking with Mr. Weasley and Bill, remembering that she hasn’t hugged him or kissed him or been honest at all with him about how much she still loves him.

“Are you excited to go back to Hogwarts?” Gemma asks with a grin, as if she knows exactly what Darcy’s thinking about. With a thrill of horror, Darcy looks away.

“I guess so.” Darcy closes the magazine distractedly, accepting a lit cigarette from Gemma and smiling weakly as she puts it to her lips. “I’m not going back for Professor Snape. Slughorn’s teaching Potions now. Snape’s teaching Defense.”

At these words, Emily’s magazine slips from her hands, her eyes wide in surprise. “Snape’s teaching Defense? Is Dumbledore mental?”

“What did Snape say about it?” Gemma asks again, leaning forward eagerly. “Did Dumbledore say?”

Max hoots at the window, ruffling his feathers. Only Darcy looks at him—Emily and Gemma are both far too excited for this gossip. But Darcy indulges them anyway, reliving her meeting Slughorn and the conversation she’d shared with Dumbledore in the outhouse just outside. Emily cocks an eyebrow throughout the whole thing, listening closely with the corners of her lips slightly upturned, but Gemma listens with a grave expression on her face.

When Darcy finishes telling them everything, even about how Snape might be cold towards her, Gemma clears her throat. “Mum asked me about you shortly after Lucius Malfoy went to Azkaban.”

Darcy’s blood runs cold, her veins icy, the hair on the back of her neck on end. “What did she say?”

“Well, it’s just . . .” Gemma shrugs. “She’d heard rumors from Lucius Malfoy about how Professor Snape likes you. I think Draco had been relaying things to his father.”

Darcy shakes her head when Gemma stops there. “And?” she prompts.

“I told her I didn’t know. What was I supposed to say?”

“Your mum knows you hang round with Darcy Potter?” Emily snaps, looking outraged. “Your Death Eater parents know you hang round with Darcy Potter?”

“Fuck you, Em,” Gemma scowls. “You think I’m a fucking moron? Yeah, I tell my parents that Darcy Potter’s my best friend and I’m part of the resistance.” She punches Emily in the arm, causing Emily to leap on Gemma. The two of them tussle for a moment as Darcy watches on, indifferent as she smokes her cigarette. When Gemma finally pushes Emily off her, she huffs. “You’re _mad_ if you think I tell them I’m still in contact with Darcy since school ended.”

Emily bristles. “You act like your parents are stupid—”

“They aren’t stupid, they just want to believe what I tell them,” Gemma replies carefully, brushing her dark hair back out of her face—dark hair that almost reminds Darcy of Sirius. “It’s a lot easier for them to believe I’m not talking to Darcy than it would be for them to believe I am.”

“That’s a stupid fucking answer,” Emily says warningly, untangling her hair from her earring. “You’re placing a lot of faith in your parents to keep a secret.”

“I didn’t come out and tell them,” Gemma hisses. “And I think I know my parents a lot better than you, thanks.”

Desperate for the fighting to stop, Darcy casts around quickly for a subject. “Emily, do you know what’s been going on with Tonks?”

Immediately, both Emily and Gemma look at Darcy. The fighting is completely forgotten, and Emily almost looks scandalized. They share a wary look for a moment, and then Emily smiles very mischievously. “You mean you don’t know?”

“She’s _your_ friend,” Gemma snorts. “You shouldn’t look so delighted about it.”

Darcy frowns, unsure why this makes her so irritated. What kind of gossip have they been sharing while she hasn’t been around? How much time have they spent together? Why didn’t Gemma tell her about Tonks? Darcy and Gemma had spent time together at Grimmauld Place gossiping about Tonks (not their finest moments, but honest ones, at least)—why hadn’t Gemma let her in on this secret?

“Are you going to tell me or not?” Darcy snarls, putting her cigarette out forcefully in a nearby ashtray.

“Tonks is in love with Remus,” Gemma supplies, wriggling her eyebrows. “And he doesn’t want her.”

Darcy runs a hand down her face, groaning. “Fucking hell,” she moans, as Gemma snickers. “Are you fucking serious? And I’ve been talking about him right in front of her—oh, _fucking_ —why didn’t you tell me?”

“Do you want to know more?” Gemma presses, raising her eyebrows. “We’ve got both sides of the story.”

Something about discussing this in such detail leaves a bad taste in Darcy’s mouth. On one hand, the news makes her ecstatic, makes her realize that Lupin hadn’t been lying about what happened between he and Tonks. Darcy does desperately want to know what was said, but she thinks if the roles were reversed, she wouldn’t want Tonks knowing everything about it. But why would either Tonks or Lupin tell Emily or Gemma about things like this, knowing their closeness with Darcy? It’s then she remembers something Gemma had told her about Lupin:

_I’m sure he expects me to tell you. Maybe that’s why he tells me in the first place._

“All right, go on, then,” Darcy says quietly, feeling slightly ashamed of herself for delving into this private experience between Lupin and Tonks. “Tell me.”

Gemma allows Emily to go first. “You can’t tell anyone that we told you this,” she says very seriously before going back to her normal self, bright and lively and beautiful. “It must have been . . . I don’t know, a few days after we saw you off from King’s Cross, Tonks came into work all like she is now, you know? And she was telling me that she’d tried to talk to Lupin—”

“You know you can call him Remus, right?” Darcy interrupts.

Emily gives Darcy an irritated look. Gemma laughs and answers, “Calling him by his first name would make their friendship official. Can’t have that, can we?”

“ _Anyway_ ,” Emily says, clearing her throat and refilling her glass of wine, drinking almost angrily. “She tried to talk to _Remus_ about how she felt, and he hardly even let her finish. She said it was like he wasn’t even interested in hearing about it. He just—ran away and hasn’t spoken about it properly to her since then.”

“I call bullshit, because Remus told me what happened and his side of it was way more interesting than that,” Gemma says, smiling in a very pleased sort of way.

“Well, I’m sorry my story disappointed you,” Emily answers, rolling her eyes. “But let’s hear it.”

Gemma rubs her hands together greedily. “I heard that Tonks cornered him by showing up unannounced at his house,” she begins. “First of all, who does that days after their best friend has been killed?”

Darcy can’t help but to agree that maybe surprising him during a difficult time is a little insensitive. Even if Emily wouldn’t admit it, she squirms uncomfortably as if she’s in agreement, as well.

“Then she started asking questions about he and Darcy—right to his face, like she couldn’t have just asked me or Emily if there was something going on?—and Remus didn’t want to talk about it, so by the time she started talking about her feelings, he just wanted it to end.” Gemma smiles at Darcy. “He told Tonks that he’s interested in someone else.”

Her breath hitches and her heart stutters painfully. Darcy’s has drops slightly, her lips parted. “He . . . said that? Who?”

Gemma furrows her brow, but the smile doesn’t leave her. “Well, it’s you, isn’t it? How many women does Remus actually know and show genuine interest in?”

“Well . . .” Darcy feels panic surge through her. “I mean—what if it’s you?”

Both Gemma and Emily laugh loudly. “It’s not,” Gemma chuckles. “I can assure you that. I mean—I hope he’s somewhat interested in me seeing that we’re friends, but it’s not anywhere near the interest he shows in you. He doesn’t even ask me how my day was sometimes, even when he sees me in bloody hospital robes. I asked him once how his day went and he thought I was coming onto him. He was very sweet about it.”

It’s quiet for a moment as Darcy digests this information. He had told her weeks ago that he loves her, but he’d followed it with a self-deprecating and sad speech on how undeserving he was of her. A very Remus Lupin thing to do, she thinks, but part of his charm. She loves it about him, and hates it at the same time. And he’d come to her at Hogwarts just after Sirius had died, had held her and allowed himself to be held, had cuddled her just like he used to, seeking comfort from her arms.

“Darcy,” Emily says gently, taking hold of her hand. “Have you spoken to him yet?”

Darcy clears her throat, twining her fingers with Emily’s. The feeling gives her courage, strength, just like it always had throughout her years at Hogwarts. “No,” she says, swallowing the lump in her throat. “I’m not—I’m not ready for that yet.”

“Why?” Gemma tilts her head slightly, holding up the bottle of wine and giving it a slight shake to slosh around the small amount left inside. Her voice sounds almost strained, as if the thought of Sirius is physically painful to her. “You’ve talked about your parents loads of times. Why should this be any different?”

“When we talked about my parents, they’d already been dead for twelve years,” Darcy counters. “Sirius has only been dead for . . . oh God . . .” She pulls her hand away from Emily’s, covering her face and immediately sobbing into her palms.

Emily and Gemma seem to understand it’s okay to cry once Darcy starts, and they all cry together for a little bit, drunk and holding each other.

* * *

As June fades into July and the weather grows hotter, Darcy begins to settle into a routine, and things become as normal as she thinks they could ever be at the Burrow. After Mr. Weasley nearly begs her to stop helping with chores around the house, Darcy takes to lounging in the back garden on an old lawn chair while Harry and his friends play Quidditch, sunglasses on while she reads a book and tries to ignore the shouts and cheers coming from the others. Sometimes Emily or Gemma join her in between shifts or on days off, and they keep to their lawn chairs, bathing in the sun in their bathing suits.

It had been something of a challenge the first few days of this, as Mrs. Weasley had seen Darcy and Emily stripping down to their two piece bathing suits through the kitchen window and had run outside red in the face, talking about how they shouldn’t be showing so much skin when there are so many boys in the house. Emily hadn’t wasted any time arguing back, telling Mrs. Weasley that she’d strip down naked if she had to, and that if any boy in her household looked at her with lust in his eyes, then it’s their problem and not hers. Darcy had nodded agreement behind Emily furiously, and had been rather thankful that Mrs. Weasley had been too embarrassed to make them put clothes, for when Lupin arrives one morning as Darcy and Gemma head out the back door in their bathing suits.

“Hi,” he says, cheeks turning bright red at the sight of Darcy half-naked, eyes flicking almost reluctantly up and down her body. “I, er—I have to go.”

And turning right around, he leaves the way he had come without even speaking to anyone else.

Gemma seems unbothered, watching after him, even after he disappears from the Burrow with a _crack_! “He’s totally going to have a wank,” she says, making Darcy blush just as hard as Lupin had. “He was half hard as soon as he saw you.”

“Don’t look!” Darcy retorts, allowing Gemma to take her by the hand and drag her outside.

“ _You_ were.”

“ _I’m_ allowed.” She turns to Gemma, suddenly full of determination. “I’m going to fuck him by the end of summer. Care to make a wager?”

“Sorry,” Gemma says, looking over her shoulder to smile wickedly at Darcy. “Em and I have already placed our bets. I’ve got five Galleons down that you’ll fuck him by the end of July. She thinks he’ll at least wait until the week before you go back to Hogwarts before finally caving.”

Darcy only smiles sheepishly.

Fred and George begin to come home more often in July, and show Darcy, Harry, Hermione and the others a small pond just at the perimeter of the Concealment Charms and other spells put in place. The water is cold, but Darcy becomes used to it quickly, diving in right away before anyone can beat her in. The tops of the slimy plants tickle her feet in the center where she treads water for a little bit, urging the others to jump in. They play chicken for hours—Gemma or Emily on Fred’s shoulders, Darcy on George’s, while the younger kids watch, and sometimes Ginny climbs up on Harry’s shoulders to play with them.

“There must be some rule about students seeing their teachers half-naked,” Ron calls out in jest one day, seated on the ground with his legs in the water.

“If there is,” Gemma shouts back, attempting to knock Darcy off George’s shoulders, “Darcy’s never heard of it.”

Darcy promptly pushes Gemma as Fred stumbles, sending them both crashing into the water, leaving herself and George to high-five and celebrate their most recent victory.

The twins chase Darcy and her friends around the property most days in their bathing suits, long legs and dark red hair streaking through the tall grass as Mr. and Mrs. Weasley shake their heads at the girls’ playful shrieks. Sometimes she comes across Lupin when she enters the house dripping wet and a towel wrapped around her shoulders, and while he never runs off again like he had before, he never fails to blush at seeing her in her bathing suit. He always offers her a breathy greeting and farewell, always seemingly fighting some internal conflict, judging by the look in his eyes. It all makes her feel no more than sixteen, playing at kissing with her friends and crushing on a man nearly twice her age and drinking heavily with her friends and throughout it all, not having to worry about a single thing. It’s freeing, and she has so much fun at the Burrow with all the others there that she sometimes forgets it will have to eventually come to an end.

With Darcy kept so occupied throughout July, the month seems to fly by. Thoughts of Sirius and Snape and Hogwarts are pushed to the back of her mind, repressed, as she seizes onto the brief spell of happiness that surrounds her at the Burrow. Even thoughts of fucking Lupin are put on hold for a little while, as he’s made no move to initiate anything, and Darcy wants to give him his space. The idea that he might be interested in pursuing something with her again makes her giddy, excited, and never fails to set butterflies to fluttering in her stomach, and the thought alone is enough for now. Mr. Weasley makes time for her, checking in whenever he’s able; Fleur is an expert drinker, it seems, and is able to keep up with Emily and Gemma; and Bill is an excellent conversationalist and always has such wonderful stories to tell about his days in Egypt. The only person who seems to steer clear of Darcy is Tonks—looking absolutely depressed—but she knows why and doesn’t blame her (for the most part).

She also knows that the Weasleys and Lupin are trying their damndest not to ruin Darcy’s good mood with bad news. But she sees it in the _Prophet_ —the murders, the disappearances, supposed “accidents” in the Muggle world. She appreciates it greatly, unable to be mad since most of the news is given to her by Emily or Gemma. Emily is a great source of information, working at both the Ministry and the _Daily Prophet_ —so much so that Mad-Eye Moody relies on her very greatly, something that boosts Emily’s pride and makes her happy, despite her job of delivering such sorry news.

One morning, as Darcy washes some dishes she’d used to make herself lunch, Fleur walks (or floats, more like) over to her side and waves her wand to allow the dishes to do themselves. She looks at Darcy curiously for a moment before asking, “You do not like to use magic?”

“Oh,” Darcy answers, blushing furiously. “No, it’s just—I forget—well, I don’t really forget . . .” Ah struggles to find an answer that doesn’t sound incredibly stupid. Of course she must look like a fool doing things the Muggle way in a house full of witches and wizards who’ve always done things with magic. “I just like doing things the Muggle way sometimes.”

“The Muggle way,” Fleur repeats, chuckling and scrunching her nose. “Such a strange word. We call zem Non-Magique in France.”

“I feel like it’s easier to say Muggle,” Darcy laughs, thanking Fleur quietly as the dishes put themselves away. “I like doing things the non-magical way.” She chances a glance out the window, where Lupin is laughing with Bill and Mr. Weasley. Her gaze lingers on him for a moment and Fleur doesn’t fail to notice.

“You like zis man,” she says with a smile. “Remus.”

Darcy doesn’t think it possible to blush any harder. “Yes. He’s very good to me.” She mentally kicks herself for feeling the need to defend her relationship with Lupin.

“Bill likes ‘im, too. ‘Ee ‘as been very kind to me, especially when I ‘ave been feeling . . .” Fleur thinks for a moment, clearly searching for a word to use, but unable to come up with one. “I am theenking sometimes I am not very . . . _welcome_ ‘ere, despite what Bill says.”

Darcy doesn’t answer for a moment. She knows for a fact that not everyone in the house likes Fleur as much as Darcy does (primarily the women jealous of Fleur’s ability to capture a man’s attention), and while they’re grateful that Fleur is no longer staying in the house, her visits with Bill seem to cause some tension between people, especially Mrs. Weasley. “I like having you here,” Darcy offers kindly. “It’s not my house, but if it were, I wouldn’t mind having you here at all.”

Fleur brightens instantly. “But zat is so kind of you to say!” She kisses Darcy’s cheek. “When Bill and I get married, perhaps you could be a bridesmaid! Your friends ‘ave been so kind and you ‘ave been so much fun. Eet ees good to know there are some people ‘ere who know ‘ow to ‘ave fun!”

It isn’t five seconds later that the back door slams and Lupin walks in, smiling hopefully at Darcy. Fleur smiles, looking from him to Darcy before slipping out of the kitchen to leave them alone.

Remembering what she’d promised Gemma, Darcy feels that was a very bold thing to promise. She’d kill for a hug right now, and even that might be overkill right now. His lack of physical affection is literally killing her, she thinks. All she wants is to be close to him, to be alone with him for more than five minutes, to kiss him. So when he brazenly asks, “Do you want to come with me back to mine?”, Darcy feels like she’s been sucker punched.

Lupin seems to notice this. “I didn’t mean—” He rubs the back of his neck like a schoolboy caught doing wrong. “I feel we have much to talk about, and it’s clear we’ll be given little to any privacy here.”

_Of course he wants to talk about Sirius_. Darcy swallows. She wants so badly to go with him, to roll around in the sheets of his own bed again like they have so many times before, but she doesn’t want to talk about Sirius. The thought of Sirius hits her like a train after weeks of trying to forget what happened at the Ministry of Magic. He’d expect her to tell him everything, from the time Kreacher spoke to her at Grimmauld Place to now. She’d have to tell him about Sirius’ last words to her, his last kiss on her forehead. She’d have to tell him about what she’d done to Bellatrix. Well, she wouldn’t have to, but Darcy knows she’s no good at keeping things from Lupin.

“I can’t,” she whispers, and Lupin’s smile fades to an understanding grimace. “But ask me again in a few days.”

The hopeful glimmer is back in his eyes, and he nods.

But he doesn’t ask her again in a few days. By Harry’s birthday, a week after Lupin asked her back to his home, Darcy feels rather dejected, trying hard not to let it show. She makes Harry his favorite birthday cake, a tiny thing when standing beside Mrs. Weasley’s magically made one (Harry confesses to her that he privately enjoys her homemade one to Mrs. Weasley’s, and Darcy notices he doesn’t even eat the magical cake). His confidence in her makes her happier, and Darcy begins to enjoy the party much more afterwards, especially when Harry expresses his gratitude towards his sister for a new wristwatch by kissing her cheek in front of everyone.

Lupin arrives as the bearer of bad news and Darcy slips out of earshot to speak to Fred and George beneath a shady tree in the backyard. Both holding goblets of wine, they break off conversation as Darcy approaches, grinning.

“Fancy a swim, Darce?” George asks her.

Darcy looks up at the blue sky, the light breeze picking up her hair. “It’s going to storm.”

“What do you mean?” Fred says, looking up at the sky with her, scoffing. “It’s a clear day. Not a cloud in the sky. Come on. Tell everyone to get their suits on.”

“I’m telling you, it’s going to storm,” Darcy says with a chuckle. “I can smell it.”

“Shut up,” George laughs, giving her a gentle push towards the house. “Tell everyone to join us for a swim.”

Despite the fact that she’s sure a storm is coming, Darcy rounds everyone up who wants to swim and minutes later, she, Harry, Gemma, Hermione, Ron, and Ginny are running out the back door in their bathing suits, laughing as they race towards the water, away from the festivities. Darcy is the first to jump in with Fred and George, Gemma following her.

“Darcy says she can smell a storm coming,” Fred teases, floating on his back and looking up at the sky through half-closed eyes.

“It’s true,” Harry adds, grinning at Darcy from across the small pond. “She can smell a storm a hundred miles away.”

Gemma’s slender fingers come down upon her shoulder, aligning with the violent scars there. “How very _carnal_ of you,” Gemma whispers, giggling as she swims away with her eyebrows raised.

Twenty minutes later, the sky is gray and cold rain pours down so hard it’s like being hit with hail. Darcy and Gemma scream with laughter. When the lightning starts, everyone jumps from the water and grabs their towels, sprinting through the muddy grass back towards the comforts of the Burrow. Mrs. Weasley isn’t thrilled when everyone walks in dripping wet and panting, attempting to dry them with a spell, but everyone breaks off, heading for their own bedrooms to relax while the birthday party grows quieter and quieter.

Gemma is the only person to dry herself completely, making the rounds before leaving for home. Ginny goes back to her bedroom and Hermione goes off to take a hot bath, Harry and Ron promise to return to the party after changing, and Fred and George struggle with their mother for a moment before she manages to dry them off and clean their drippings from the middle of the kitchen. Darcy, with a towel still wrapped around her shoulders, sneaks into the sitting room to sit before the fire.

Someone drapes a blanket over her shoulders and Darcy jumps. It’s only Lupin, who decides to sit right across from her, at the opposite end of the fireplace. He’s close enough that she could extend her leg and put it comfortably in his lap.

“Thank you for coming today,” she says, smiling at him. She’s thankful for the conversation in the kitchen, promising them at least five minutes’ privacy. “Even if Harry doesn’t show it, it means a lot that you came.”

Lupin’s eyes fix upon her face, a very fond smile playing at his lips, part adoring and part sheepish. He looks exhausted, but very handsomely so, the effects of the last full moon still visible in the graying of his hair, the shadows forming under his eyes. Darcy loves him like this, remembers that this is how he’d looked the first time she’d made love to him.

“Will you read to me?” she asks softly, her smile fading. “Right here? Just for a little bit.”

He considers her a moment. “You’re serious?”

“Yes. There’s a book there, on the table. I’ve been meaning to reread it for weeks, but I haven’t had the time.”

Lupin scoffs in disbelief, but after finally realizing Darcy isn’t joking, slowly grabs the boom off the table. He opens it to the first page and, with a final glance up at her, begins to read. His voice is so sweet, so hoarse and so tired. When he reads, it’s in a slow voice as if they’re having pillowtalk, hardly stumbling, hardly stammering. The words don’t matter to her now, only the sound of his voice, the way his eyes look in the firelight—gold—moving back and forth across the pages. The way he stretches his legs out in front of him, one of his shins brushing against the blanket wrapped around Darcy. The way his free hand jumps to his hair, combing it back out of his face when it falls into his eyes.

She’s amazed for how long he can go without being interrupted. Someone pokes their head into the room every so often, but no one ever bothers them. More often than not, Mr. Weasley is the one who peeks in, only ever for a second, likely just to see if they’re still there. Darcy stokes the fire whenever it begins to die, braids her still wet hair while she listens. The party slowly dies out, as well, everyone goes home for the night, and halfway through the third chapter, Lupin stops abruptly, partway through a sentence, and looks up at her.

Darcy looks back at him, unabashed that he’s caught her staring shamelessly. “Do you want to stop?” she asks.

“Do you want to come home with me tonight?”

She smiles shyly, nodding. She doesn’t care if they’ll do nothing but talk about Sirius. She just wants to be with him, to be close to him.

“I really like you, Darcy.”

The confidence with which these words are spoken shocks her. Darcy feels her heart racing, stealing her breath away. This surely can’t be Remus Lupin in front of her, can’t possibly be. His expression is soft, but he isn’t smiling. It’s not a confession so much as a cold fact, but after she’s unable to reply, a smile creeps onto his face, sheepish and playful. Part of her, the part that she hates, can’t help but to think— _you won’t after a little while. You’ll leave like you always do. Like everyone does._

“I don’t think I’ve said those words to anyone since I was sixteen,” he jokes, making Darcy smile again. “But it’s true.”

“Who was she?”

This makes him smile wider. “You know . . . I don’t even remember.”

Darcy moves closer on a whim, sitting beside him and dragging her blanket over. She sighs, wrapping her hands around his bicep and resting her cheek on his shoulder. He tenses beneath her, but only for a moment. “Keep reading.”

Lupin turns his head slightly to look down at her. Darcy lifts her head from his shoulder when he doesn’t continue, frowning. “Darcy?”

Darcy breathes it, her heart stopped completely—“Yes?”

“Can I kiss you?”

“Yes.”

“Do you want me to?”

Darcy laughs quietly. “Yes, very much.”

Still, he’s hesitant for reasons unknown to her. Lupin seems to be very wary, eyes roving her face, searching for her true answer. “Are you quite sure?”

She laughs again, pushing herself up to kiss him softly on the lips. “Keep reading.”

Lupin smiles, disbelieving, and scoffs before looking back down at the book. He gives her another sideways look. “You’re not ashamed of your scars. The past few weeks . . . when you’ve been swimming a lot. You don’t bother to cover them.”

“Of course I’m not ashamed.” Her smiles falls, stomach churning. “Do you hate them?”

“No,” he answers quickly. “I hate that I gave them to you. _You_ don’t hate them?”

“Only when I thought you did.” Darcy inhales deeply, wanting to return the calm and comfortable atmosphere to the room. After a tense silence presses on her for too long, she tells him, “I really like you, too. Not that it’s any secret.”

“What is it that you like about me?”

Darcy blushes. The uncharacteristic confidence is almost too much for her, makes it seem like dirty talk. “Everything.”

“Even my being a werewolf?” Lupin sneers, the words coming out bitter and resentful.

She doesn’t falter. “Especially your being a werewolf.”

Lupin tenses again, clenching his jaw. For a minute or two he just watches her, as if expecting some hint of a falsehood. When he sees none, his face softens. “Is it crazy of me to actually believe you mean that?”

Darcy shrugs, smiling innocently. “I wouldn’t say it if it weren’t true.” She rests her cheek against his shoulder again. “I’ve had plenty of opportunities to run far away from you, had plenty of time to change my mind, and have I ever?”

“You might, one day. When you’ve given up on your werewolf plight and realize the truth of what I am.”

“I know you better than anyone,” she says sweetly, closing her eyes. “You think I’m not capable of recognizing the danger you are, like you forget I experienced it firsthand. But you haven’t forgotten.”

“How could I ever?” he asks, his voice strained.

Darcy hesitates, wondering if she should say next what she wants to. With a feeling of reckless abandon, she says, “I don’t love you any less because of what happened that night.”

Lupin clears his throat, rubbing his face as Darcy opens her eyes again. When he next speaks, he almost sounds congested. “It’s getting late. Why don’t you go pack for a few days?”

“How long are you planning to keep me hostage?” Darcy teases.

He’s quick to answer. “For as long as you’ll stay.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Omg I missed my 1,000,000 word mark. But a late yay to me 😇

As Darcy packs quickly, she and Harry attempt to determine in about three minutes how much is appropriate to tell Lupin. Harry insists the only people who know the full contents of the prophecy are the two of them, Dumbledore, Hermione, and Ron (the latter two only knowing because Harry only told them a few weeks ago at Dumbledore’s insistence). Something about that doesn’t sit well with Darcy—Dumbledore never told her that she could reveal such revelations to Gemma or Lupin, the two people she’d tell almost right away. Something about it just being the four of them, however—she, Harry, Hermione, and Ron—makes everything seem so permanent, as if they’re in it together now for good, sharing a secret so impressive and important that it could change the world.

But Dumbledore had asked for trust, had promised he wouldn’t keep her in the dark this time, and Darcy fears the reasoning behind it. Perhaps he feared that, if Lupin did know the contents of the prophecy, it would become common knowledge to the Order. Lupin wouldn’t be able to keep a secret like that from the Order, not one that could possibly help them defeat Voldemort. But why wouldn’t Dumbledore want them to know? Does he not want the Order to intervene?

So when Harry says, “I don’t think you should tell Lupin about the prophecy yet or talk about my lessons with Dumbledore”, then Darcy can do nothing but agree.

Before leaving him alone in the room, Darcy wants to cry, her heart so full of love while looking at her little brother, cleanly shaven and smiling at her. It nearly breaks her to think that he may have to fulfill the prophecy, and what chance does a sixteen-year-old stand against Voldemort? Is that a terrible thought?

“Hey,” she says, forcing herself to smile. “I love you.” Darcy pulls Harry to her chest, kissing the top of his head. “I’ll see you in a few days, all right?”

“Please tell me _someone_ knows you’re leaving?” Lupin asks her as Darcy makes her way down the stairs a minute later.

“Yes. Harry does.”

“Excellent. If Molly wakes tomorrow and finds you gone without so much a word, I’ll be strung and quartered by hippogriffs, no doubt.”

Darcy snickers. “What kind of punishment is that?”

“The cruelest and most painful one I could think of. Come on.”

But Mrs. Weasley is waiting in the dark kitchen, as if she’s been waiting for them, as if she knew this was their plan all along. They both jump ten feet at the sight of her, panting as if just having sprinted a marathon.

It’s humiliating, truly. Darcy feels that Mrs. Weasley treats her like a child, and the way she chastises Lupin about his “impure intentions” and his “misguided judgement” and “rose-tinted view of the girl”, continuing to berate him for “stringing her along when it’s convenient”. He flushes at these words, but seems more angry than anything, holding his tongue in front of Mrs. Weasley likely to keep himself from saying something cruel. Darcy, on the other hand, can think of hundreds of cruel things she’d like to say, clutching Lupin’s hand like some five-year-old girl ready to leave some boring adult get together. It angers her that Mrs. Weasley could possibly stand there and assume she knows best—angers her that Mrs. Weasley would assume such things of Lupin. When Mrs. Weasley decides to stoop very low, hitting him below the belt with “a massive betrayal on his part towards James and Lily”, something in him seems to snap, and he lets go of Darcy’s hand, looking more wolfish than she can remember ever seeing him while not during a full moon.

“Molly,” he begins, and just by his tone, Darcy knows that this will not be a pleasant conversation. It’s a snarl, his teeth bared, and if he were a wolf now, Darcy’s sure all his hair and hackles would be on end. “Do you think that those things have not already been planted in my head by others who would rather us be apart? Do you think I have not thought these things many times before? Do you think I don't recognize how _this_ —” He gestures wildly at himself and Darcy. “—might look to you and everyone else in the world?”

Mrs. Weasley blushes bright red, a red almost to match her hair. Darcy only watches Lupin closely, completely in love and more turned on than she has any right to be.

Through gritted teeth, with an almost crazed grimace, Lupin leans forward, towering over Mrs. Weasley. He’s almost scary, but Darcy can’t help but to love it. “Given recent events that clearly have not affected you like they have myself and Darcy,” he growls, “I will be taking her home with me tonight, and if you want to believe that the sole reason I’m bringing her home is to _defile_ her or whatever you think it is I have planned, then so be it. It’s nothing you all haven’t thought before, is it? Even if I were bringing her home to _defile_ her, Darcy is a consenting adult and can decide for herself whether or not she wants to join me.” He takes a deep breath, pushing his hair back. “Last I checked, you’re not her mother, and I don’t know that Lily would appreciate you making decisions for a girl you hardly know.”

Mrs. Weasley, her cheeks still tomato red, stammers for a moment, looking more flustered than Darcy’s ever seen her. She squeezes her thighs together when Lupin stands up straighter to his full height, looking expectantly and calmly at Darcy. He bends one more time to grab her bag, slinging it over his shoulder and nodding politely to Mrs. Weasley. Darcy trails after him out the back door, out into the humid night, misty as if there are dementors around and still sticky due to the storm that seems to be at an end.

Darcy wraps her fingers around Lupin’s forearm, looking up at him as they begin the walk towards the perimeter of the Burrow. His jaw is still set, his nostrils flared, yet there’s something so attractive about it all that she can’t help but focus in on. The way he sweat slightly underneath his warm clothing and after his exchange with Mrs. Weasley, his shaggy hair extremely disheveled from running his fingers through it so much. Darcy blushes, hoping he can’t smell her arousal.

“Was it too much?” he asks her then, a hint of anxiety in his tone as he looks down at her. “Was I too cruel?”

“No,” she answers honestly, squeezing his arm. “I don’t think so. You were only angry.”

“I _am_ angry,” he says, almost pouting. It makes Darcy’s heart melt, despite the roughness in his voice. “It makes me angry that anyone would ever assume that I would intentionally, knowingly, willingly take advantage of you.” He stops walking, making Darcy stumble. “I would _never_ do that to you.”

“I know.”

He looks at her apologetically for a moment, and then his expression turns to one of adoring exasperation. “Are you _really_ turned on right now?”

“Yes,” Darcy answers breathlessly, cheeks burning, feeling as if she can’t get enough air. “I can’t help it, I’m sorry. It’s just that . . . you’re so . . . when you’re angry, I . . .”

“You sweet, sweet girl.” Lupin kisses her gently before continuing their journey to the edge of the Burrow with her hanging off his arm. “Hold on tight, would you? If you get Splinched, I’ll never hear the end of it from Molly.”

Darcy doesn’t just hold on—she moves in front of him, her chest pressed against his, arms wrapped around his waist. She rests her cheek on his shoulder, closing her eyes as his arms snake slowly around her. He doesn’t Disapparate right away, but seems to be—like her—enjoying the feeling of her body against his, of holding her after weeks of barely any physical contact. This is what she’s been waiting for—a hug comforting enough to make up for the days spent crying at night, dreaming of him tearing her throat out, of Nott touching her in places she wants no one but Remus to touch.

Lupin buries his face in her hair, nuzzling against her, unable to get close enough. With his arms still wrapped around her neck, he grips Darcy’s shoulder as if in fear that she’ll run away given the chance. Finally, Lupin touches the end of her braid, fingering her red hair. “Let’s go home,” he murmurs into her hair, and without waiting for an answer (which, of course, would have been _yes_ ), he clutches onto her again and Disapparates.

His home is unchanged since the last time she’s set foot here. Things are slightly dustier—after all, he’d been living at number twelve, Grimmauld Place for nearly a year—but all the furniture is the same, in the same places, and when Darcy pokes her head into the bedroom, she’s pleased to find that only one half of the bed has been disturbed. She blushes upon seeing a few photographs of herself on the nightstand, and as Lupin fusses about in the kitchen, looking for coffee, Darcy slips into his bedroom and picks them up. One of them is the picture of Darcy reading nearly naked in his bed, long legs stretched out in front of her. The others are more or less the same—a photo of her from above, one that had been taken while Lupin had been inside of her, her head thrown back, eyes closed, and lips parted. Another is of her sleeping, the sheet pulled down to the curve of her lower back, the dimples that Lupin claims to love so much showing.

He appears in the doorway suddenly, looking flustered, as if he’s only just remembered about the pictures. Darcy only smiles at him and holds them up. “You been having a wank to pictures of me? Or did you just miss me that much?” she teases, biting down on her bottom lip and tossing the pictures back onto the nightstand. “I’m flattered.”

“Nonsense,” he replies quickly, his cheeks tinted pink, leaning against the doorframe. “I would never do anything so filthy or crude with pictures of you.”

“But what if I wanted you to?” Darcy asks, and he falters, clearing his throat and looking incredibly embarrassed. Her smile falls from her face and she tucks the pictures into the drawer to hide them away for good. “I’m sorry. I’ve made you uncomfortable. I shouldn’t have come sneaking around your bedroom.”

“I don’t mind,” he says, shoving his hands deep in his pockets and leaning against the threshold. “You won’t find anything more exciting than dirty pictures of you, and even that likely isn’t very exciting to you.”

Darcy smiles weakly, looking out of the window at the thicket of trees behind the cottage illuminated by the light of the waning moon. The woods seem to go on forever, the tall and skinny trunks of trees awfully foreboding. “It’s a _little_ exciting to me.”

“Look, I don’t want you to think I’ve only brought you here for one thing—”

With her back still to him, afraid that looking at him will make her cry, Darcy interrupts him. “I know why you’ve asked me here,” she continues. “You want to talk about Sirius, and I don’t know what to say.” Will it ever be possible to think of Sirius without feeling winded and beat up? She forces herself to turn around and face Lupin, wrapping her arms protectively around herself. “I’m sorry. I just wanted to—to be with you. I should have thought of what I was going to say.”

Lupin’s mouth twitches, and the sight of him smiling—even a small smile—encourages her. “We don’t have to talk about it right now. You could at least put your bag down first and pretend you haven’t got one foot out the door already.”

Darcy nods. “Sorry. Okay.” She exhales loudly, looking around the bedroom. She can’t believe how much she’s missed this place, everything just as it was—the pictures of himself as a boy, the few Gryffindor things still in place, the same bed covers, the same plants, the same everything. Just being here, standing here in Lupin’s home where they’d spent so many days and nights together, makes a warmth spread from her heart all the way to her fingers and toes. “Can I take a shower? My hair smells like pond water, and it’s not exactly a very nice smell.”

He chuckles. “Go on, then. You know where everything is.”

Darcy hesitates, lowering her bag to the ground. She only just now realizes how long it has been—and yet somehow recently—since Sirius stuck his head through the bedroom door to find she and Lupin in bed together, or since Sirius had been sitting on the sofa in the living room, or since Sirius had eaten with them, laughed with them. Everything she sees seems to have some kind of connection to Sirius, no matter how distant. Suddenly, Darcy privately wishes she hadn’t come, not wanting Lupin to see the worst side of her with all their talk of Sirius to be had.

But she doesn’t want to go.

“I forgot to tell you, before we left,” Darcy says quietly, swallowing the lump forming in her throat, “I’ve been having really bad nightmares lately.” Her cheeks are on fire, and though Lupin doesn’t seem to expect any further elaboration, Darcy feels almost instinctively that she must give some kind of explanation. Or maybe she just wants to talk, to fill the silence that bears down on her so heavily, that makes her shoulders ache with the force of the weight. “I normally use a Charm so as not to wake anyone, but I forget sometimes, and . . . and I . . . I’ll only disturb your sleep.”

Lupin shrugs, his arms folded over his chest. “When have your nightmares ever bothered me?”

“I’m sure they’ve always privately bothered you,” she says, a feeble attempt at a joke that falls relatively flat. “You’re just too sweet to say so.”

He blushes, a sight that still makes her weak in the knees, the knowing that she has the ability to make a grown man blush. It’s endearing and, frankly, she can see why Lupin tries so hard to make her blush at times. “Are you hungry?” he asks, the tint draining from his cheekbones.

Darcy shakes her head slowly. “I wouldn’t say no to something to drink, though. And could we sit outside after? I think the only way I’ll be able to get through this is by being drunk and smoking cigarettes.”

“Fair enough,” Lupin replies, sounding rather unbothered. “I’ll see what I can find in the liquor cabinet, though if I’m being honest, I’ve been . . . liberal with my drinking habits lately.”

She makes something reminiscent of a tsk, reminding herself of Hermione. “You’re going to turn into me, you know. A functioning alcoholic.”

“Bold of you to assume that I’m not halfway there already,” he answers, smiling forcibly at her in a way that makes her uneasy. The weight of Lupin’s words are not lost on Darcy, however—the easy and apparently false confidence he’d had at the Burrow seemingly forgotten in this moment. This is him at his most vulnerable, and Darcy realizes that maybe he’s just as nervous as she is about sharing the worst side of himself with her, or the worst side of himself while it’s not a full moon. “Go take a shower, love. I’ll be here.”

Lupin leaves her in the bedroom then, alone and still holding the strap of her bag that’s now resting on the floor.

The hot water is a godsend. It wasn’t until she’d stripped down to nothing that she realized how cold she was. The water scalds her back as she rinses her hair, cleansing her (is this what it feels like to be pure again?). Darcy pushes the thought aside and then realizes she’s been doing that too often lately. Maybe it’s best to confront these thoughts while she feels safe within the confines of Lupin’s cottage. Maybe it’s best to tell him everything, except the contents of the prophecy—but she could play that off easy enough. It had broken, and people had seen it break.

She doesn’t spend too much time in the shower, not wanting Lupin to think she’s avoiding a conversation. If it were up to Darcy, she’d just plant herself on the sofa in front of the television with him at her side, but she can’t help feeling that, until a conversation is had, there’s likely going to some form of awkwardness between them, words unsaid hanging over them.

When Darcy finds him next, he’s sitting out back, two comfortable looking chairs facing the woods. The night air is chilly, but only when the breeze blows, and with a light jacket on over her t-shirt, it isn’t terrible. Lupin is already sitting in one of the chairs, but turns when he hears her coming up, her soft footsteps rustling the tall, unkempt grass. The chair groans beneath her weight when she sits down, but Darcy is grateful that the first thing he does is pour her a glass of scotch from a tall bottle that looks slightly less than half-full. It makes her eyes water before it even touches her lips, and when she gags, Lupin smiles.

“It’s the strongest I have,” he tells her, eyes following her hands as she reaches into her pocket for a cigarette, fixing upon her lips as she lights it with a match. “Strong enough for you?”

“You’re just trying to lower my inhibitions, aren’t you?” Darcy asks, taking another drink of scotch. It’s awful, but she knows the more she drinks it, the less she’ll taste it.

“You’re feeling awfully bold tonight, aren’t you?” Lupin scoffs, though he doesn’t seem unkind about it all. “Asking me if I’ve been having a wank to your photos, assuming I’m supplying strong alcohol in order to thoroughly _ravish_ you . . . how crude of you, love.”

“I don’t think I said anything about you thoroughly ravishing me.”

“You just have,” Lupin says, smiling slightly as he drinks. “Unfortunately, I have a personal rule about not ravishing anyone while they’re drunk.”

Darcy cheeks burn. She quickly drinks some more scotch to stifle the creeping feeling of embarrassment, puffing on her cigarette. “Somehow I don’t think that rule quite applies to me.”

“And what makes you think that?”

“Do you have to make me blush so much?” Darcy asks, feeling that even looking into his eyes is too much for her. “You’ve never cared much whether I was drunk or not.”

Lupin places a hand over his heart, looking pleased and mockingly offended, but exhausted at the same time. “I’m hurt,” he says. “How could I ever say no to you when you’re drunk when all you do is beg for it?”

Darcy scowls. “I do not _beg_ for it! And I don’t appreciate you making a fool of me.”

“A fool of _you_?” Lupin retorts, now looking genuinely hurt. “As if you haven’t just asked me to my face if I’ve been wanking to pictures of you! What better way to make a fool of a man is there than that?”

Darcy bristles, putting her cigarette out angrily in the grass. “ _Were_ you wanking to pictures of me?”

Lupin clenches his jaw for a moment, grinding his teeth. “All right— _fine_! It was _one_ time, and it was your fault for walking out in front of me with that tiny bathing suit on! Some notice next time would be much appreciated.”

Immediately, she grins, and Lupin flushes a deep crimson, looking away from her with a slight scowl. “Don’t let Emily catch you saying things like that,” she giggles, feeling rather pleased with herself. “Oh, stop looking so embarrassed. I think it’s cute. Was it really just the one time?”

“Are you done?” Lupin growls, draining the rest of the scotch in his glass.

“I’m done,” Darcy says, giving him an apologetic smile. “Stop it—Remus, look at me.”

He does, grudgingly, clearly trying to make Darcy feel guilty. It doesn’t work. His half-scowl and half-pout only keep her smiling. Lupin’s eyes seem heavy already, bloodshot from the drink.

“Do you want to know what happened at the Ministry or not?”

His tone softens, and all trace of irritation or embarrassment fades from his lined and weary face. “I told you, we don’t have to talk about it right now.”

“I want to,” she says, and Lupin raises his eyebrows in surprise. “I want to get it over with now.”

“All right. The floor is yours, then. Can I top you off?” He holds up the scotch bottle and Darcy nods, downing it in one gulp to give herself as much courage as possible. It makes her head spin and she blushes, drunker than she’d thought.

Darcy lights another cigarette and begins. “Kreacher woke me from a nap . . .”

She tells Lupin the honest truth, leaving nothing out she isn’t supposed to, crying all the while. She tells him what had been going through her head when she’d decided not to tell Sirius she was leaving, confesses that she’d paid Stan Shunpike with kisses instead of money, tells him what Lucius Malfoy had said to her and how she’d gotten her wand from him, how Nott had handled her and how she’d escaped his vile clutches. She details everything, from what she can remember of the mess that was their attempted escape from the Department of Mysteries, and breezes over Sirius’ death, knowing Lupin remembers that well enough. He listens with an intense concentration, scowling at the mention of Lucius Malfoy, his eyes flashing when she describes what happened with Nott. And when she reaches the part about returning to the Atrium after chasing Harry and Bellatrix Lestrange, Darcy pauses.

Having drunk so much scotch, the memory of torturing Bellatrix had momentarily slipped her mind. It’s the last thing she wants to admit to, afraid that he’ll be disgusted by her behavior, especially after shamelessly flirting with her and confessing his feelings in a way that Darcy can’t ever remember him really doing before. She’s quiet for a little too long, however, and Lupin seems to catch on to the fact that there’s much more than she’s letting on.

“What is it?” he prompts her, signs of intoxication written all over his face. Darcy wonders if he’ll even be able to get his thoughts straight in order to talk to her. “You can tell me anything.”

She shifts uncomfortably. “It’s awful. You won’t like me anymore.”

“Impossible. Tell me.”

_Tell me_. It isn’t quite a command, but Darcy can’t bring herself to disobey. “When I got into the Atrium, I . . .” She closes her eyes, unable to picture anything but the scene itself. She remembers the triumphant way Bellatrix had looked at her. “I couldn’t think . . . I couldn’t process . . . all I wanted was for her to hurt like she’d hurt me, and . . .” Darcy’s eyes flutter open, shame washing over her when she realizes Lupin is still looking at her. “I tortured her. You know what it takes to cast an Unforgivable Curse . . . and I did it, and I liked it.”

Lupin suddenly seems very wary of her, with just a slight change in his body language. Every muscle in his body seems to tense—his shoulders hunch and his jaw clamps shut and even the hand clutching his glass grips tighter, his knuckles turning white. “Are you lying to me?”

Darcy blinks in surprise, suddenly pulsing with anger. “You think I would lie about that?” she snarls. “I would have killed her if Harry hadn’t stopped me.”

“You would have killed her?”

“Why not? She killed Sirius.”

“C’mon, you’re not serious. You think you could kill someone if it came down to it?”

“You don’t?” Darcy frowns. Somehow, this hurts her, but she isn’t sure why. “I tortured her because I _liked_ watching her hurt. You don’t think I would have killed her?” She watches as Lupin’s incredulous smile flickers at her assertion that, maybe, she could kill someone. Not that she particularly _wants_ to, but she doesn’t want Lupin to look at her as if she’s weak, as if she’s only a little girl. _I can be dangerous. I can be scary. I can be strong_. “I would do the same for you. The same for Harry. I would kill for the both of you. If anyone hurt you, I’d—” She cuts off abruptly, crying into her hands.

“You’d do that for me?”

“Will you just shut up?” Darcy snaps, running her hands through her hair and feeling ready for another shower already. Her eyes are itchy and her cheeks are streaked with tears. “I’ve just told you everything and it was very difficult and traumatic for me and all you can think to say is that you don’t think I could kill someone? If you didn’t know what to say, a hug would have been just fine!”

“Is that what you want?”

She nods, and he moves very quickly for someone who has had so much scotch. His arms are around her in an instant, pulling her from her chair and holding her tight. Darcy melts into him, her cheek against his chest to listen to the surprisingly quick beating of his heart, just like all those years ago when he’d held her for the first time. She clutches at the fabric of his shirt, wanting to rip it off him and fuck him until there’s nothing left to feel.

“I feel like . . .” she cries softly. “It’s like every time I have something good, it’s taken away from me. And I’m afraid that you’ll be next.” Darcy looks up into his face, her heart aching painfully at the thought of living a life without him. “I don’t want you to be next.”

He kisses the top of her head as the wind picks up, making the trees shake and shiver in the distance. It makes the hair stand up on the back of her neck. “Everyone I have loved best is gone,” Lupin says, with a soft, mirthless laugh. “And I am . . . _terrified_ that you will meet the same fate as my friends—as your parents, as Sirius—did. But I can’t live without you. Not now. Not after what’s happened. How do I justify keeping you close to me—keeping you in constant danger?”

Darcy looks at him for a long time. “Please don’t push me away again. You don’t know how much I need you.” She swallows hard, forcing the lump in her throat down, fighting back new tears. The words are out of her before she has time to think about them. “I’m not okay. And I need you.”

He strokes her hair, pushing it out of her face. She can hardly see him through her swollen eyes, in the dim lighting of the moon that continues to play hide-and-seek with the clouds. Whenever his rough thumb brushes even the slightest bit of skin on her cheek and temple, his thumbprint seems to be burned onto her flesh.

“Let’s go inside.”

“Why?” Darcy asks quickly.

“Because I’ve held you now, and I’ve no intention of letting go for at least another hour.”

It _is_ much more comfortable on the sofa before a fire, the television muted, lying in between his legs with her back against his chest and his arms securely around her. How many times have they laid like this, tangled lazily on the sofa? How many times has she fucked him on this sofa, kissed him, loved him, admired him? Darcy traces soft circles on his knee with her fingertips, his heartbeat at her back. Every so often, he nuzzles his chin against the top of her head before kissing her forehead, runs his fingers through her hair.

It amazes her how easily the two of them can fall back into a routine, how comfortable they are with each other to assume such an intimate position without having to talk about it beforehand. As the alcohol slowly wears off, Darcy’s able to compartmentalize her thoughts much better, and things become clearer.

“Are you all right?” he murmurs, kissing her head again. “You’re quiet.”

“I’m thinking.”

“A Knut for your thoughts?”

“I don’t even know where to begin.”

“Try.”

Darcy sighs, closing her eyes, hoping sleep doesn’t take her unawares. “Do you ever wish you were born normal?”

“Er—what exactly is normal to you?” She can tell that there’s a small smile on Lupin’s face just by the way he says the words.

“You know . . . like a Muggle,” she explains softly, feeling the heat rise to her cheeks again. “No magic, no Hogwarts, no Ministry of Magic, no Voldemort . . .”

“You think being a Muggle is normal?” he asks, and Darcy has to tilt her head back to look at him, wanting to admire the slight crease between his eyebrows and the way she can tell the gears in his brain are working by the glazed look of his eyes. “We are normal, and you’re an excellent witch. But I suppose . . . you’d really want to live without magic?”

“Yeah, I think I could.” Darcy thinks it’s an honest answer. How hard could it possibly be? Maybe slightly less convenient at times, but she already cooks like a Muggle, cleans like a Muggle, spends her free time like a Muggle, reads Muggle literature. “Couldn’t you?”

“It’d be hard to live like a Muggle with my condition.”

“Oh.” Darcy looks away, embarrassed. “Sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”

“Don’t be sorry, love.”

“I hope when we die, we’re reborn, you know? I’d like to know a life where I’m not constantly breaking and healing all over again.” Darcy pauses, waiting for him to speak, but he only combs her hair with his fingers again. “A life without suffering or murder.”

“I don’t think suffering is something unique to the magical community. Just because there’s no Voldemort to Muggles doesn’t mean they don’t know their fare share of pain.” Lupin’s hand falls from her hair to her cheek, caressing her jutting cheekbone with his thumb. “Years ago now, I told you the suffering never ends, but you learn to live with it.”

“I remember.”

“I’d like to amend my statement now.”

“Oh?” Darcy sits up, turning to face him, one of her legs draped over his thigh, her other leg tucked beneath her. His shirt has ridden up where she’d been laying on him, and she brushes her fingers against the exposed skin just above the waistband of his trousers.

Lupin watches her hand for a moment before taking it in his own and kissing her fingers. “When I told you that, it was after I’d been suffering alone for a long time, and I fear it was bitter advice that you didn’t deserve.” He releases her hand and Darcy draws them back into her lap, feeling guilty when hurt crosses his face for a moment.

“What do you mean?”

He regards her with a certain curiosity for a moment, as if wondering if he should even tell her at all. But he does in the end. “It is possible to heal, to move past the suffering, I just didn’t know it,” he says, and he’s quiet for a long time again. “I want to do it with you this time.”

“With me?”

Lupin nods, looking pained.

“You won’t want me.” The familiar feeling of panic and dread creep up her spine, making her shiver. “I’m a lot of work, and you know what it’s like when I get bad. I’m telling you, you won’t like me anymore when I get bad again, and I always do.”

“I’ll still like you then. I still liked you when it happened before.”

“We won’t be able to fix each other, you know that, don’t you?” Darcy frowns, looking at him for a long time. “We’re far too broken to be fixed completely now.”

“I’m not asking you to fix me, or heal me. I already know I’m too far gone for that,” he says again, too serious for her liking. “I’m only asking that you heal _with_ me.”

Darcy feels drunk again. Her head spins—this is what she’s wanted, to be with him, to be his again, so why is it so hard to accept? Maybe it’s because she knows what this is: two lonely people, two badly hurting people, in need of comfort, of understanding. Is that all love is? She told him she needed him, and she meant it, she does mean it.

“Is it true? What happened with you and Tonks?”

Lupin smiles ruefully. “Whose side did you hear?”

“Both. Gemma thinks yours is more accurate. She said you told Tonks you were interested in someone else.”

“It’s true.”

“Was it me?”

“Are you sitting in my lap right now, or is Tonks?” he asks, raising his eyebrows when Darcy blushes. “It’s not that I . . . I never meant to be cruel to her, and I don’t think I was, but . . . she’s not you. She’s never seen me at my worst, doesn’t recognize the danger I am the way you do, doesn’t know the deepest parts of myself like you do.” Lupin touches her shoulder, fingering the scars there, looking slightly pale. “Of course it was you. It will always be you, in spite of everything.”

Darcy almost begins to cry. To hear such affectionate and loving words being spoken, not just about her, but to her is something out of a dream. “No one has ever understood me the way you do,” she says. “I know it sounds stupid, but it’s one of the things I like so much about you.”

Lupin smiles fondly at her, eyes glossy. “It’s one of the things I like so much about you, as well.”

Her heart skips a beat, as if she’s never heard him speak words of love to her before. “I’m going back to Hogwarts this fall.”

“I know.” Lupin flexes his fingers, much like Darcy does when she itches to hold someone’s hand. “There’s a good chance that I’ll be going away for a few weeks at a time again. To the werewolves.”

She shakes her head. “I don’t want you to go. What if something happens? What if I need you and I don’t even know where you are?”

“I need you to trust me, love. Can you do that?”

Darcy finds it far easier to trust Lupin blindly than Dumbledore. If she can trust Dumbledore, she can trust anyone, can’t she? “Okay. I trust you.” And she means it. “What about everything you said that night at Grimmauld Place? About holding me back? About not being selfish?”

She’s glad to see that Lupin looks uncomfortable and awkward about it. “What you have to understand is that, for years, I’ve been avoiding anything close to a real, romantic relationship for reasons I’m sure you don’t need repeated to you.” He pauses here, lips still parted, as if expecting Darcy to interrupt, but she doesn’t. “But I never expected to become so _smitten_ by you, of all people. And maybe . . . maybe what matters is that we’re happy. Maybe in times like these, the first step to healing is holding onto those things that make us happy.”

“You’re talking nonsense.” Darcy can’t help but to smile. “Are you feeling ill?”

Lupin gives an embarrassed laugh. “Is it convincing nonsense, at least?”

“Are you trying to convince me, or yourself?”

His smile quickly fades, as if he hadn’t anticipated such an accusatory answer. “Maybe a little bit of both.”

Darcy worries at her bottom lip, biting the inside of her cheek. Of course the thing she wants most is for him to love her, to be his again, to have him love her unrestrainedly and unabashedly. But is that something she wants at the cost of his own sanity? He had loved her like that before when she had been a fresh graduate of Hogwarts, and even now Darcy isn’t sure she can really determine what had caused him to change so much last year, to doubt that love. Had it been because she didn’t marry him like he’d wanted? Had it been because another woman had shown interest in him? Or maybe he was battling his own demons among the werewolves and couldn’t think straight, just like Darcy had been fighting the good fight at Hogwarts, which had worn her down to the rawest form of herself, only to strip her further with Sirius’ death.

“If you don’t want this . . .” she sighs, and it seems to take much effort on her part for the words to come. “If you truly meant what you said to me at Grimmauld Place, then all right. I’m not going to twist your arm or beg for this. I just want you to be happy, and if it means having to love you from afar, then all right.”

Lupin’s breath hitches, a small and minute thing that she’s sure he doesn’t realize she’s noticed. “Please, Darcy,” he whispers, “touch me.”

Darcy reaches up to place her palm to his scratchy cheek. He nuzzles into her, closing his eyes. She smiles, climbing up in his lap to place sweet and soft kisses to his cheeks and forehead, to his nose and chin. A sheepish smile graces Lupin’s face as she wraps her arms around his neck, pressing her chest to his, still kissing every inch of skin available to her. A soft groan escapes his lips as she continues to kiss, kiss, kiss, avoiding his mouth, only touching the very corners of it, wanting to draw it out, to make it mean something. Finally, when Darcy thinks she’s marked every place on his face with her lips, she rests her cheek against his shoulder again, the tip of her nose brushing against his neck.

“I’m going to be completely honest with you,” she murmurs against his neck, leaving more kisses there. “I don’t even know where to begin with healing from this.”

Lupin chuckles lightly. “Nor do I,” he confesses. “But I think this is a good start.”

* * *

She knows she’s hurt him, and it hasn’t even been a day.

He didn’t have to say anything. It had been obvious by the look in his eyes when her hand had jumped instinctively to her throat, the way his face had been deathly pale upon waking. She knows that she’d been crying out for him to _stop_ , that it _hurt so badly_ , and he hadn’t even given her anytime to explain before getting out of bed, and a moment later, she’d heard the sound of water hitting the shower tiles. She’d almost gone after him, to beg him to come back to bed, to hold her, to cuddle her, to kiss her, and she still doesn’t know why she hadn’t.

Darcy takes a long pull off her cigarette, staring out into the night. The summers are noisy here; she’d noticed that two summers ago when she and Lupin had played at being a normal couple, eating dinner by the fireside and watching television and making love on every surface available to them. No matter what they’d been doing, the sounds from the surrounding woods and tall grass had always followed them in through the open windows, and she had become so used to the sounds of insects chirping that she didn’t hear it at all half the time. She likes it now; they’re singing to her—as they should, for being here again is certainly cause for celebration.

But not like this. Not with Lupin thinking her nightmares involve him hurting her in ways she doesn’t want to imagine he may think.

And the worst thing is, Darcy doesn’t even know why she dreams of him when he’s done nothing to warrant such things. Or, maybe he has hurt her, but never purposefully like he does in her dreams. Never has Lupin attempted to tear her throat out, never has he continued to hurt her after she’s told him to stop. It had been Nott to hurt her, Bellatrix Lestrange . . . not Lupin . . . so why does her subconscious think it kind, or even appropriate, to further torture her with dreams like this?

When Darcy returns to the bedroom, close to four in the morning, Lupin is already back in bed and fast asleep. She wonders how long he’d been laying there waiting for her (if he’d waited at all) before going to sleep again. The sheet is bunched up at his waist, revealing his broad and bare chest to her, waiting for Darcy to curl up beside him and put her cheek to his chest, it seems. How badly she wants to do that. How badly she wants to pretend everything is normal again. But she knows that there is no more normal—that whatever she and him want to happen between them will forever be marred and interrupted by the constant cycle of tragedy and loss that is their lives.

He would be happier with Tonks, she thinks, hating herself for it. But it’s true.

(how long will it take, i wonder, for you to start cringing away from me, as well)

_Never_. Darcy looks down at Lupin, her heart painfully tight, painfully broken, empty. _You were wrong. I’m not afraid of you_. She moves forward and extends a hand out to touch him, to trace the angry scar below his navel, but she hesitates inches from his skin. _Why don’t you believe me?_

(there’s a darkness in you, a meanness)

_No, there’s not. I can’t help what I dream of._

(you want people to hurt)

_No, not him . . . not him._

But she can’t quite shake the look that had been in his eyes, the pain, the hurt, the self-loathing.

_It was only a dream . . . I didn’t mean to._

Did you mean to torture Bellatrix?

_She killed Sirius. She deserved it. That doesn’t mean anything._

But the thought of hurting Lupin lingers and hurts her, and it’s why she quietly gathers her bag and walks out the front door, Disapparating with a _crack_!

* * *

The house is dark, too quiet. A thin layer of dust has already settled on the moth-eaten carpet, and she can hear the scurrying of mice in the walls. As soon as she takes a few steps further down the corridor, the gas lamps on the walls spring to life, making her jump. She sees shadows move in her peripheral vision, trying to focus on what’s directly in front of her.

_It’s only the lamps making those shadows._

Or it’s ghosts. The ghost of Sirius, stalking the corridors of the house he so hated. The ghosts of her parents, the ghost of Mrs. Duncan and the ghost of Cedric Diggory. For some reason, the thought of them all being here, watching her—even Cedric, a boy she hardly knew—gives her comfort. Darcy continues up the stairs a little more confidently, a little braver, the lamps flickering to life each time she passes one. It’s habitual to tip-toe past Mrs. Black’s covered portrait, hardly registering it’s even there.

Her bed hasn’t been touched since Kreacher had lured her out of it. The blankets are still in the same disheveled state, the pillows bunched up at the headboard. Other than that, the nightstand has been emptied and so has the wardrobe. Darcy means to fall asleep in the bed, but she’s too restless now, and wants to check the rest of the— _her_ —house, just to make sure she’s completely alone. The last thing she needs is for someone to be sleeping in one of the beds, surprising her in the morning.

She purposely avoids Sirius’ room, knowing she’ll have to check it eventually. And once she clears the rest of the bedrooms—all left in their previous state and covered with thin films of dust just like the carpets—she pushes open the creaking door to Sirius’ bedroom and is hit with memories of him so hard that it almost brings her to her knees. The room, still full of Gryffindor memorabilia and pictures of half-naked girls on the walls, even smells like her godfather had, a musty smell mingling with stale drink that had somehow become comforting and familiar to her. She still feels that way. The smell engulfs her like a warm hug, and it’s almost like Sirius’ ghost _is_ here with her.

Darcy hasn’t been in Sirius’ room for some time, and she’s pleased to see that he felt her photographs were important enough to hang on the wall. She crawls atop his bed quickly, moving towards them. Her eyes are drawn first to the photograph she’d seen before, of Sirius and James and Lupin and . . . Darcy ignores Peter Pettigrew, her eyes moving to the other pictures she’d given Sirius over the last year. One of she and Sirius on Christmas, his arm slung over her shoulder, pressing a kiss to her temple; an old picture of she and Harry from nearly two years prior that she’d given him; a photograph she was loathe to give over, one of she, Sirius, and Harry over Christmas, as well; and a fourth picture that Darcy hardly remembers, being so drunk herself. She leans closer to take a better look.

She can’t remember exactly who had taken the picture, but it’s a lovely one. Darcy and Gemma are in the middle, arms around each other in a tight embrace, Lupin on Darcy’s left and Sirius on Gemma’s right, smiling wide and looking down at them with expressions that are nothing less than adoring. Darcy smiles, eyes filling with tears.

She reaches for the picture of just herself, Sirius, and Harry, meaning to pull it off and keep it—and maybe the others, as well. But it’s stuck to the wall, and nothing she does with her wand can get it off. Darcy cries harder, tugging at it, but the picture neither rips nor tears nor comes off the wall into her hands, and her heart shatters all over again. She screams against his pillow, rage coursing through her, making her head throb, her pulse pound in her ears.

After screaming herself hoarse into the pillow and crying until she can hardly see, overcome with dry sobs, Darcy retreats back to the drawing room with the huge tapestry spanning the back wall, where Gemma’s name is now, where Sirius’ date of death has likely been magically embroidered. She starts a fire in the hearth, feeling all the while as if she’s being watched. The house is no longer home, she realizes—that feeling had died along with Sirius, Darcy thinks, and now the house is far too vast, too empty, with too many shadowy corners. Sirius’ wireless is still sitting on a nearby table; Darcy promptly picks it up and brings it to the sofa with her, where she curls up under a blanket and fiddles with it until she finds a station that isn’t as crackly as the rest.

It would be a much nicer sleep next to Lupin, but the shame is too deep. To think she’d been crying in her sleep, begging him to stop hurting her . . . to a man who already hates himself, what could possibly have been worse than that? Maybe he’ll come searching in the morning. Maybe he’ll know where she is. Or maybe he won’t come at all.

The quiet is pressing. Darcy begins to cry again, but she doesn’t know why. The wireless continues to buzz with music, all kinds—people and songs she’s never heard of before. She turns it up, pulling the blanket over her head, tucking her wand beneath a stiff pillow. The house creaks and she tenses. The scurrying of mice makes her heart race. The fire pops and she sobs. The atmosphere is oppressive, thick, as if a fog is settling in the house, and something else here has changed that upsets her more than anything.

Darcy is not comfortable here. Whatever number twelve, Grimmauld place had been to her just weeks ago, when Sirius was alive—it is not that same place now.

_No_ , she thinks, as a slow and haunting song begins to float from the wireless, burrowing into her head, _this is not home anymore._


	6. Chapter 6

“Good morning.”

Darcy’s eyes snap open, her hand already reaching instinctively beneath her pillow, gripping her wand tight. She freezes at the sight of Albus Dumbledore standing over her, a small smile on his face. Rubbing the sleep from her eyes, she blushes furiously, a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach.

The fire still hasn’t quite died out completely, still producing some heat in the surprisingly chilly drawing room, the wood reduced to almost only ash. Through the thick velvet curtains—a deep green, like everything else in this house—over the grimy windows, morning sunlight attempts in vain to peek through, illuminating a few strips on the carpet. The sounds of distant traffic are audible now, the occasional car horn bleating or the screech of tires on asphalt. The morning commute has begun, it seems, and sure enough, when Darcy checks her watch, it’s nearly nine o’clock in the morning.

She hasn’t even changed. Her shoes are still on her feet, her hair a mess, mouth incredibly dry. This isn’t exactly the position she anticipated being found in, especially not by Dumbledore. Nevertheless, Darcy sits up and tries to regain whatever dignity is left to her, knowing she’s earned herself a tongue-lashing for doing what Dumbledore had explicitly told her not to do. But she isn’t sorry—that’s the one thing she isn’t going to do, not this time. She won’t apologize for returning to her house, her home. Why should she? And Dumbledore just let himself in! Waltzed right into her house without even knocking! Though he might have tried to knock, she reasons, and it could have been she was just sleeping too heavy to hear it.

“Molly is quite distressed, you know,” Dumbledore says, not unkindly, almost sounding half-amused. “She thought you might have gone back to Hogwarts early. No one knows that number twelve belongs to you now, so I don’t think it occurred to anyone to look here.”

“I’m sure you knew I’d come here right away, sir,” Darcy replies bitterly, angry at herself for not feeling more guilty about worrying everyone.

“Admittedly, my first thought was not that you would come here. I assumed that returning here would be too painful for you.” Dumbledore looks around the drawing room, his hands held in front of him, swaying slightly back and forth on his feet. “It was Harry who suggested this place to me when it was discovered you’d left Remus’ without a word.”

“I didn’t really have many options in terms of safe houses,” she says, looking into the fireplace, watching it smoke and hiss and glow faintly. “I just had to leave, and I couldn’t go back to the Burrow.”

Dumbledore gathers his lavender robes, lowering himself into an armchair. “Why did you leave? Remus was very shaken by your sudden disappearance.”

_I’ve hurt him again_. Darcy looks away from Dumbledore, ashamed. “I did a horrible thing, Professor. A terrible thing.”

He frowns, furrowing his brow as if unable to grasp this. In a very gentle voice, he says, “Tell me what you have done, Darcy.”

“I did something illegal.”

“Whatever you did, I have no intention of informing the Minster, I promise you.”

“You don’t even know what I did yet, sir.”

“Then tell me, so we can discuss it and hopefully ease your fears, whatever they may be.”

She hesitates. Having told Lupin already, the confession seems to come to her a little easier this time, but it still makes the shame overcome her. She feels dirty, unclean, _bad_. “I used the Cruciatus Curse on Bellatrix Lestrange, in the Atrium before you and Voldemort came.”

“What happened when you casted it?”

Darcy shrugs. “What’s supposed to happen when it’s casted. I tortured her.”

Dumbledore is quiet for what feels like a long time. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, crooked fingers steepled together. She can tell he’s deep in thought, and she wishes—not for the first time—that she knew Legilimency. “While perhaps not the most admirable thing you’ve done, it is certainly one of the most impressive,” he says finally, with a grave expression on his face. “What made you stop?”

“Harry,” she answers quickly, feeling very warm. “I was . . . I couldn’t think, I couldn’t tell you what I was thinking in the moment, Professor. I was just so angry and I wanted her to hurt the way I was hurting.”

“Is this why you left Remus’?” Dumbledore asks, more curious than unkind or disappointed or angry or whatever Darcy had imagined his reaction might be. “Because you cast the Cruciatus Curse on Bellatrix Lestrange?”

“Not really . . . I mean . . .” Darcy runs a hand through her hair, fingers untangling the knots near the ends. “I’ve been having this dream. It’s so real, I don’t . . . the last time I had dreams like this was when Sirius broke out of Azkaban, and I dreamt of him constantly, when he came to me after my parents died.” She lifts her gaze to meet Dumbledore’s piercing stare, her voice wavering as she continues. “It starts with me torturing Bellatrix, just like it happened at the Ministry. But then it’s not Bellatrix, it’s . . . it’s Remus and Sirius, both of them, but just one at a time, and then—” She blushes again.

“Go on.”

“And then Remus is kissing me, but it’s not—it’s not the same, it’s—” Darcy squirms on the sofa, very uncomfortable with confessing the contents of her dream to Dumbledore. “And then he always . . . he bites me, but it’s _him_ , not the—not the wolf.” She touches her throat, where the skin is still smooth and sensitive and unmarked by Lupin’s teeth. “He’s trying to rip my throat out, and it hurts so badly—I can feel it in my dream.”

He’s quiet for another moment. Darcy touches her cheek, feeling a tear drip down onto her fingers. She hastily wipes it away as Dumbledore averts his eyes to pretend he hadn’t noticed. “Are you afraid of him?” he asks, looking distractedly at the tapestry.

“No.” The answer comes easily, without any hesitation or doubt. “I’m not, but I had the dream last night and I know he heard me talking in my sleep, begging him to stop. He just looked so . . . hurt and broken and I couldn’t face him again. I didn’t want him to look at me like . . . like he did after he attacked me in the Shrieking Shack.”

Dumbledore nods, his eyes finding hers again. He seems far too understanding. “What happened last time, after Remus attacked you?” There is genuine concern in his voice now, a genuine concern that throws Darcy off guard.

“I—well . . .” She swallows hard, her brows knitting together. “He avoided me for weeks. He wouldn’t even look at me in class. When I confronted him, he was cold towards me. I was afraid he’d be the same if I had stayed last night and woken there in the morning. I was ashamed that I’d hurt him, sir.”

“We do not ask to dream of what we dream of,” Dumbledore tells her softly, holding his hands in his lap. “Surely Remus will understand that your dreams do not indicate your true feelings towards him.”

“But I feel as if . . . he’ll think that, deep down, I am afraid. And I think, maybe I am—maybe seeing him as a werewolf would frighten me only for a moment, because of what happened, but—I know he wouldn’t—not with his potion . . .” Darcy gives her head a slight shake, trying to push the thought away. There are more pressing issues Darcy wants to discuss with Dumbledore that aren’t related to her romantic life, especially her romantic life with her former teacher. “Professor, what does it mean that I could cast an effective Cruciatus Curse?”

He doesn’t look taken aback by her question, but his face does take on a rather severe look. “It means you must have really wanted to cause Bellatrix pain,” he explains slowly. “But that does not make you a bad person. You, who have always felt emotions much deeper than your peers, are more likely to be able to effectively cast spells that are linked to emotions.”

“It took me a long time to learn a Patronus,” Darcy confesses. “I couldn’t think of a happy enough memory.”

“Is it not easier to dwell on the bad memories than the good?” Dumbledore raises a white eyebrow. Darcy can’t argue with this. “Remus told me you had casted a Patronus while thinking of a _dream_. You had no idea at the time whether or not it was real, but it worked.”

“Does it make me a bad person? Am I bad for being able to torture her?”

When Dumbledore doesn’t answer right away, Darcy’s heart sinks into her stomach. She doesn’t know why this thought is bothering her so much. Isn’t it normal for her to have wanted Bellatrix to hurt after what she did to Sirius? Wouldn’t anyone’s first reaction be anger, hatred?

“No. It does not make you a bad person.” Dumbledore glances over to the fireplace, pointing his wand at it to make the fire spring to life again. “You were raised in a loveless household, lost people you loved most, but in all my years of knowing you, I have never once thought you cruel, or anything less than a good person.” Dumbledore gets to his feet, but Darcy remains where she is on the sofa. “You have a steadfast loyalty to your brother, whom you chose to raise after realizing what not caring for him would subject him to. You never looked at Remus any different for his being a werewolf, nor for what he did to you. You are kind to Professor Snape, despite what he was. The world has been against you, and you’ve fought valiantly. Forgive me, but these actions don’t seem those of a bad person.”

Darcy appreciates his words, and they do fill in part of the hole in her heart, but there’s still something that unsettles her about how easily the spell had come to her, about how instinctive it had been. “I’m sorry I didn’t listen,” she says finally, and it’s a weight off her chest. “I know you told me to stay at the Burrow or at Remus’—”

“Do you want to know something?” His eyes twinkle with what seems like mischief. Darcy nods. “I never really expected you to listen. Are you ready to go back to Remus’?”

“Yes. Just a minute, please, sir.”

Dumbledore deigns to putting out the fire as Darcy runs upstairs (quietly past Mrs. Black) and into Sirius’ room. In front of the gilded mirror, she fixes the side of her hair that she’d slept on and walks back over to the photographs permanently stuck to the walls. She prods at each of the pictures, murmurs, “ _Geminio_ ,” to duplicate them all, and carefully cradles the newly formed pictures in her hands when she finishes, smiling down at them.

They aren’t the originals, but they’re better than nothing.

When, at last, she returns to the drawing room to grab her bag, Dumbledore calls her name with a certain curiosity. She raises an eyebrow, more than surprised when he asks her, “Would you indulge an old man a tune?”

“A—a tune, sir?” Darcy laughs nervously. “If you’d like the wireless, you can have it. Fair warning, it’s shite. Forgive my language, Professor.”

“Not the wireless. The piano, my dear.” He gestures towards the dusty piano nestled into the corner of the room. “Would you?”

“Oh, um . . .” Darcy forces herself to smile sweetly, shrugging her shoulders. She would very much like to play the piano again, especially this one, which has been her favorite since first sitting down on the rickety bench. “Do you . . . have any requests?”

Dumbledore seats himself on the armchair facing the piano, looking absolutely delighted and almost childlike. “You’re the expert.”

Darcy flushes brilliantly crimson, sitting down on the bench with her back to Dumbledore. It takes her only a minute to think of a song she can play without much practice, one she feels she hasn’t played in a long time, one she feels isn’t quite the same without Lupin listening to her play it. For the first time in what feels like years, the haunting melody of Moonlight Sonata fills Grimmauld Place, seemingly bringing all of the ghosts into one place, into the drawing room, to listen, to understand, to comfort her as she plays. This time, it is for Sirius, the proper good-bye she never got to give him, and Darcy hopes that some of this emotion resonates with Dumbledore.

When she finishes and turns around to give a prideful, albeit weak, smile, she notices that Dumbledore’s eyes are shining with tears as he claps for her.

* * *

She expects the London fog and gray sky to carry over to Yorkshire, but she’s dead wrong. Darcy wonders where the nearest dementor is as she arrives in the unkempt field just outside the boundary of the protective enchantments at Lupin’s. The sky is a bright crystalline blue, dappled with puffy white clouds that form the oddest shapes, the morning sun shining down onto the cottage, illuminating it with a yellow halo and leaving all else in shadow. The air is wet here, as if it has rained only a few hours ago (judging by the drops on the blades of grass, it has), but Darcy likes it. It’s a clean feeling.

Lupin is pacing out front when she arrives back at the cottage, one of her cigarettes between his index and middle finger, a wide-eyed and disheveled and panicked look about him. When he hears the cracking sound that signals her arrival, he stops abruptly, the cigarette burning between his lips, staring at her.

Darcy approaches him slowly. His appearance and demeanor throws her off, and she privately wishes Dumbledore would have come with her, in the hopes that he would calm Lupin. His anger, his hurt, his pain is palpable even from a distance, and only grows more noticeable as she continues towards him with her bag slung over her shoulder, hoping the sight of her, unharmed, will ease the obvious tension in his body.

Then, when Darcy stops about three feet away from him, Lupin scowls, flicking the cigarette butt away from him with unnecessary force. It makes her flinch, seeing how wolfish he looks, as if the features are finally beginning to peek through the human part of him. “What are you playing at?” he hisses, lips stretched tight as he bares his teeth. “Leaving in the middle of the night without so much a word? If you didn’t want to be here, you could have just said so instead of playing whatever nasty game you played with me last night.”

Darcy doesn’t know what to say. She deserves this, so she lets him go, looking at her feet. She feels like his student again, being chastised for wrongdoing, being given a detention.

“I’m thirty-six-years-old, Darcy. _Far_ too old to be playing games.” For a moment, all she can hear is the morning breeze rustling the leaves of the surrounding trees and his heavy breathing. “If you’ve no interest in being with me, then go. I don’t want you here if this is how it’s going to be.”

She looks up for a moment, momentarily startled by the anger in his face. It must show on her own face.

“Do I frighten you?” His tone is full of venom, the words spat at her. Lupin takes a few steps closer, closing the distance between them and wrapping his fingers around her upper arm. She tries to pull away, but he refuses to let go, hunching slightly so his face is at a level with hers. “Do I scare you, Darcy? Do you dream of me ripping your shoulder to ribbons?”

“No.”

“What was that?” The tip of his nose is nearly touching hers now, his fingers almost painful around her arm. “Look me in the eyes and tell me you aren’t afraid of me. Look me in the eyes and tell me I’m not a monster.”

Darcy inhales deeply, lifting her eyes to look into his. “I’m not afraid of you, and you’re not a monster.” She shifts, reaching for her bag. “I brought you something.”

His nostrils flare for a moment with rage, as if expecting it to be a lie. And then, his grip loosens just barely, enough that he isn’t hurting her anymore. When Darcy raises her eyebrows, Lupin lets go completely. She retrieves the picture she’d duplicated of him at Hogwarts with his best friends. Even with Peter Pettigrew in it, it’s a lovely picture.

Lupin takes it warily and looks down at it for a long time. A muscle twitches in his clenched jaw, and Darcy suddenly worries that she’s offended or upset him by bringing him this photograph. How could she be so _insensitive_? Darcy makes a quick grab for the photograph, but Lupin moves away even quicker before she can take it. Their eyes meet, causing them both to freeze mid-action, arms held out awkwardly, both of their breaths being held, it seems.

“Where did you get this?” he asks quietly, his voice hoarse.

Darcy lowers her arms back to her sides. “Sirius’ bedroom. I had to duplicate it. It was stuck on his wall with a Permanent Sticking Charm.”

Lupin’s tongue darts out to wet his lips as he surveys the photograph more closely. His eyes linger on the face of each boy in the picture for a minute or so, even examining his own smiling face. Darcy wishes he’d smile, make a fair attempt at mimicking the boyish qualities of his past self just for a moment, just to prove to her that he isn’t angry. He looks far too serious for his own good right now, far too stern and solemn, that little crease between his eyebrows a clear sign that he’s lost in thought, and Darcy is surprised that she doesn’t see steam shoot from his ears.

Finally, he lowers the photograph from the front of his face and he scrutinizes Darcy instead. “You meant everything you said last night?” he asks, and it’s a pleading question. There’s desperation in his voice, as if wanting to hope it was all true, but knowing it couldn’t possibly be.

“Yes,” she says.

“Do you have any idea what was going through my head when I found you weren’t at the Burrow?” Lupin snaps, softening slightly after the words are already out of him, after he’s realized the sharpness of his tone. “I thought maybe you’d been taken, or hurt.” He exhales loudly, running a hand down his weary face. “Please don’t leave again. Please don’t do that.”

Darcy thinks this is a reasonable request. “Okay. I’m sorry.”

He nods, clearing his throat. “This is very nice.” Lupin holds up the photograph by the corner, as if loathe to dirty the actual contents of it with his fingers. “Thank you. You’ve no idea how much this means to me.”

“I’m sorry I left. I never meant to hurt you.” Darcy moves closer, hesitant to wrap her arms around him. “You know I’m not afraid of you. I want to prove it to you.”

Lupin seems to catch her meaning right away, his face hardening yet again. He shakes his head, seeming very firm about the entire thing, a finality to his voice that Darcy wishes would disappear. “No, Darcy. I know what you’re thinking,” he tells her. “The answer is no, and it always will be. I’ve already told you before, I don’t want you to see me like that. Do not ask that of me.”

Darcy huffs impatiently. “Remus—”

“Don’t, Darcy, I mean it.” Still clutching the photograph, he folds his arms over his chest, looking very intimidating. But he doesn’t scare Darcy, which is his goal, she thinks.

“What are you so afraid of?”

“You know exactly what I’m afraid of.”

“I know you won’t hurt me. It would be different this time, with you taking your potion—”

“It’s a risk I’m not willing to take,” Lupin sighs, pocketing the photograph to hold his hands out, palms up. Darcy takes them, allowing him to pull her closer, bringing her hands together at the nape of his neck. He keeps his hands on her forearms, as if making sure she doesn’t pull away from him. “It’s nothing to do with not taking you at your word and everything to do with the fact that I don’t want you in the same room as a fully grown werewolf. Besides, full moon isn’t for nearly three weeks.”

“But you don’t believe me,” Darcy says, exasperated. She can’t blame him, not really. It’s hard to imagine what life might be like as a werewolf, but she doesn’t want to believe she’d take it any better than Lupin. She fusses with the back of his hair with her fingers, the shaggy mop of brown and gray in desperate need of a trim. “What if I became an Animagus?”

He smiles weakly at her, fondly. “I wouldn’t ask that of you. I witnessed firsthand the absolutely onerous nightmare that was becoming Animagi.” There’s something of Lupin’s old self that’s becoming more visible in his eyes, a hint of Professor Lupin, mischievous and yet warm. “Besides, the answer would still be no. I could still hurt you, even if you were an animal.”

“But—”

“Stop talking about it.” His voice is suddenly gruff, but the warmth in his eyes is still there. He isn’t angry with her, but angry with himself. “Please. I don’t want to talk about this.”

Darcy offers him a small, reassuring smile. “Okay.”

Lupin pulls her to him completely then, long arms wrapped tight around her waist, his face pressed against the scars on her shoulder. He kisses her shirt, just where the longest scar is, then kisses her neck gently before lifting his head to look at her again, almost sheepishly. “Are you mine?”

It takes Darcy a moment to answer, needing to catch her breath and keep the world from spinning around her. This must be a dream, it’s too good to be true, she loves him so much. “Do you want me to be?”

“Do _you_ want to be?”

“If I say that I’m yours, will you finally kiss me proper?”

Lupin smiles, eyes flicking down to her lips momentarily. “You’ve had plenty of chances to kiss me proper. What were you waiting for?”

“Believe it or not,” Darcy chuckles, tightening her grip around his neck with her arms to bring his face closer, “you still make me incredibly nervous.”

He hums in reply, looking distinctly pleased with himself for having this effect on her. “If I kiss you proper now, there’s a chance I won’t be satisfied with just a kiss.”

Darcy grins, blushing slightly. “That’s a risk I am _definitely_ willing to take.” With an utterly content sigh, she murmurs, “I’m yours.”

Without so much an answer from him, Lupin captures her lips in a bruising kiss—which, to Darcy, is answer enough. His hands jump to cradle her face in his warm hands, fingers slipping through her red hair. It’s messy and wet and desperate and possessive, nearly knocking her off her feet with the force of it. Darcy feels she’s ached the entire summer to be touched and loved this way, and it helps—very slightly, but some—to fill the gaping chasm in her heart that’s been left there by Sirius. The kiss is dizzying, reminiscent of the first—their first real kiss, anyway, not the sorry little thing she’d given him before running from his rooms—a curious kiss, exploratory, deepening for a few seconds before rescinding, as if he’s taken it too far and is suddenly worried he’s offended her. Then again, but this time deeper, hot tongue flicking against hers before easing up once more.

Darcy keeps her eyes closed as his lips break from her own to leave kisses on her cheek, down her jaw, until Lupin is pulling her towards the cottage by the hands rather hurriedly. They laugh breathlessly as they collide just across the threshold, leaving quick kisses on each other’s lips, attempting to remove some clothing, continuing to stumble towards the bedroom. When they do reach the bedroom, Lupin falls backwards when the bed catches him in the back of his knees, his shirt unbuttoned to reveal his chest and stomach to her.

She slides out of her shorts, climbing atop him to straddle his waist. For a moment, she is so overcome with love for him that she forgets what they’re about to do—what they have been doing. All Darcy can do is look down into the smiling face of this man that she loves, looking up with her an expression of such adoration she’s hardly seen on anyone’s face while turned towards her. The knowledge that Lupin thinks she’s something special in a world with hundreds of other women who might gladly jump at the chance of being with him (though Darcy has one particular woman in mind) makes her heart race painfully.

When his hands come to rest on her thighs, Darcy seems to be shocked right back to reality. Lupin only smiles up at her, fingers tracing distracted patterns on her skin. “What are you thinking about, love?” he asks, as if she hasn’t just mentally wandered off in the middle of something exciting.

Darcy leans closer, pushing his hair back out of his eyes. “You.” She kisses him. “Always you.”

“Oh? Going to elaborate?”

She shrugs, smiling and shaking her head.

Lupin doesn’t press the issue, and her lack of explanation doesn’t wipe the smile off his face. Instead, he moves his hands to her waist, his thumbs barely lifting her shirt to touch the skin there. And then he throws her off his lap, climbing on top of her and propping himself up with his elbows to kiss her again. Over and over, sweet kisses, soft kisses, tender kisses, hungry and wet and greedy kisses, claiming her with his lips. Darcy’s almost forgotten how much she missed the feeling of the rough stubble on his face scratching against the sensitive skin around her mouth, her chin, her cheeks, has almost forgotten how much she missed the feeling of his callused hands exploring her body as if they’ve never done this before.

Even as they continue to undress each other slowly, the bedroom is full of—not only the sound of kissing—but of laughter, teeth clashing and foreheads colliding, joints popping while testing their flexibility, soft moans that are swallowed by deep kisses, whimpers whenever someone touches a particularly sensitive spot. There’s a sense of urgency to it that stems from the excitement of being together again, but they try their hardest to draw it out, kissing and touching and rubbing and groping like desperate teenagers.

Lupin’s fingers belong inside of her, she thinks, as he hovers over her, lips slightly parted, watching Darcy squirm and writhe beneath him. She isn’t ashamed in the slightest when she begins to beg breathlessly for him, only growing frustrated when he smiles lovingly at her, shaking his head without so much a word, watching her fight against the impending orgasm until she comes with a whine, much to his pleasure.

Darcy allows herself a few seconds, looking up at him in a dazed sort of way, feeling she could very much do it again and again. She attempts to push herself up. “Let me—”

“No,” he rasps.

She hesitates, blushing. “Don’t you want me to?”

“Not right now.”

Darcy closes her eyes again as the backs of Lupin’s fingers brush the skin just below her navel. She doesn’t even think she’s ready for him to touch her again—if he could just give her a few seconds . . . but his fingers don’t move any lower from their place on her stomach.

“Look at me, Darcy.”

She does. His face hovers inches from her own, brown—almost gold—eyes looking steadfast into her green ones. With the pad of his thumb, Lupin gently smooths her hair back just at her temple, damp with sweat, and he kisses the corner of her lips, the softest kiss he’s ever given her. Darcy swears she can _feel_ his racing heart, his chest barely brushing against hers—or maybe it’s her own speeding heart.

“I love you,” he says softly, kissing the other corner of her mouth with the same kind of tenderness.

Darcy can’t help but to smile, touching his tight triceps with the tips of her fingers. “Really?” she breathes.

“Was it not obvious enough?” Lupin asks, a slight amount of worry in his tone.

She chuckles, and he laughs with her—a nervous laughter, breathless and excited and almost childish, a laughter that might follow the awkward first confession of some secret love. Darcy’s eyes fall slowly to his lips, and she raises her head to kiss him. Lupin’s hips move against hers, and as he deepens the kiss, he fills her inch by inch at an agonizingly slow pace. Darcy sighs into his mouth, receiving his tongue in quiet reply.

She doesn’t deny him what he wants, nor would she ever.

“I love you, too,” she breathes, combing her fingers through his hair over and over again, wiping the sweat off his forehead with her palm, uncaring.

“You can’t say that while I’m inside of you,” he teases, his breathing becoming more ragged, while she pants like a bitch in heat. “It’s insincere.”

Darcy puts her lips to his ear and he snaps his hips against her again. “I love you, I love you, _I love you_.”

“ _Christ_.” He groans at just the sound of these words, lips grazing her throat and nipping at the skin. She isn’t even afraid in the slightest. “Say it again.”

“I love you.”

“Tell me you’re mine. Please.”

“I’m yours.”

“Again,” he snarls.

“I’m yours, Remus— _yours_.”

He finishes with a shout before the words are even completely out of her mouth.

* * *

“This one is new.” Darcy runs a finger lightly over a puckered pink scar nearly four inches long, resting just over the right side of his rib cage. “Have I kissed it yet?”

“I don’t know,” he mumbles sleepily, turning his head slightly to look down at the scar. “Perhaps you should kiss it again just to make sure.”

Darcy kisses the tips of her fingers before pressing them to the scar again. He sighs contentedly, eyes closed, his fingers tracing circles on her upper arm.

For a few minutes, they listen to the rain through the open bedroom window. It had started late afternoon, summer rain falling from a bright blue sky, continuing late into the night, well past midnight now. It’s not as if the rain had been particularly cumbersome to them, given that they spent most of the day in bed, kissing and touching and giggling, drunk on each other. The sheets are still tangled around their ankles, her knee squeezed comfortably between his, the both of them only partially clothed.

“Do you want to know a secret?” Darcy whispers as Lupin drags his fingers up to her scarred shoulder, fingering them for a moment before touching the love bites that cover her chest.

He hums, eyes opening slightly.

“I’ve been in love with you since I met you on the train.”

His mouth twitches, and after fighting it for a moment, allows his lips to curl up into an unabashed smile. “Hardly a secret. But indulge me.”

“You were so sad looking, and so kind to me.” Darcy brushes his hair out of his eyes. “I spent—I do spend—a lot of time being afraid, but when I’m with you . . .” She moves closer, basking in the warmth of his body, wrapping her arm around his waist, her cheek to his chest. “I feel safe with you.” His heart continues to drum steadily in his chest. “I miss how it was sometimes. When we were both at Hogwarts.”

“Do you?” he asks awkwardly, squirming very slightly in her hold. “I think I much prefer you not being my student . . . not that it was anything you did . . .”

Darcy chuckles. “I didn’t mean it like that. It was all just so easy then.” She inhales deeply. “This will work, right? I’ll go back to Hogwarts and you’ll . . . you’ll go away for . . . for weeks at a time.” The thought is painful. “How will I know if something happens to you? How will I tell you that I love you, or that I miss you?”

“Listen to me,” he whispers, brushing the tears from her cheek with his thumb. “We’ve done this before, and I’ve always come back, haven’t I? Just like I promised.”

“But what if . . . what if something happens to you?” Darcy clings to him, not wanting to ever let him go again. “Please, I don’t want you to be next.”

“We’ll find someway, I swear it.” Lupin kisses both of her tear-streaked cheeks, then kisses her still swollen lips. “We have a month still until you return to Hogwarts. Let’s not spend this month worrying about such trivial things.” He gives her a small smile. “Do you know what I first thought of you? When I met you on the train?”

“What?” Darcy asks, only half-interested in hearing the truth.

“I was blown away, truthfully, at the resemblance between you and your mother,” he tells her, tucking some stray pieces of red hair behind her ear tenderly. “And yet, as we started spending more time together, I started noticing things that were not Lily’s, nor James’.”

Darcy smiles weakly. “Like what?”

Lupin touches her cheek gently. “Your dimple here. Just the one. All yours.” He smiles when Darcy blushes, then touches her cheekbone, just beneath the corner of her eye. “The freckle here.” She smiles. “Your nose scrunches up, just like that. And your lips.” He kisses her.

“Do you have much experience with my mother’s lips?” Darcy laughs softly as he kisses her face over and over.

“Your mother, no. Your father on the other hand . . .”

“Stop it!” She laughs again, his beard rubbing against the crook of her neck. It tickles her, sending shockwaves down her body. “Stop—! I yield!”

Lupin pulls his face away from her, his arm fixed tight around her waist. Both of them are panting heavily, smiling at each other. “We’ll make this work, all right, love? Listen, kitten, it will be just for a few weeks and then I’ll be back home.”

Darcy frowns earnestly this time, her heart sinking. “Here?”

His own smile doesn’t falter. “With you.” Lupin closes his eyes, as if this is just some worthless confession that doesn't set her heart to beating madly. “I was going to keep it a secret, to surprise you, but I suppose this is a good enough time to tell you.”

“Tell me what?”

“Dumbledore has permitted me to visit while I’m not with the werewolves. Security is of utmost importance this year, and that’s what I’ll be. He’ll have Aurors stationed at Hogsmeade, as well.” Lupin clears his throat, trailing off awkwardly. “You’re my home, Darcy. When I was away all those times, it wasn’t this place that I craved, or Grimmauld Place. It was _you_ I ached for.”

Momentarily struck dumb, Darcy admires him as he smiles adoringly at her, stroking her hair. “I love you,” she breathes. “Just in case I haven’t told you enough today.”

He chuckles. “Truthfully, I never tire of it.”

Darcy flushes in the darkness. She’d only said the words every time he’d made her come, only said the words every time he’d plunged inside of her, said the words whenever she couldn’t think straight. She must have said them a hundred times just today, and it always had such a pleasing effect on him while he’d had her bent over some piece of furniture in the cottage.

“Why are you blushing? Don’t tell me now that you regret the words?” he teases, his voice more of a purr than anything.

“I only regret that you had to hear them in such . . . _insincere_ . . . circumstances.” The corners of Darcy’s lips quirk upward.

“You shouldn’t,” he growls, kissing a particularly dark love bite at the base of her throat. “Knowing that those are the only words you can think of when you’re on the verge of coming apart is . . . appealing. More than that, really. It’s downright _seductive_ , did you know that?”

“Proclaiming my love for you?” Darcy asks, not bothering to suppress her grin. “Are you sure that’s what you find seductive instead of the fact that you’re always inside me when it happens?”

“An added bonus.” His fingers tangle in her hair, his lips pressing to the sensitive skin just below her earlobe. “Mine.”

The soft kiss makes Darcy whine unconsciously, instinctively. “Yours.”

* * *

Darcy splits her time the rest of the summer between Lupin’s and the Burrow. Dumbledore seems to keep Lupin quite busy with the Order, and sometimes she wakes alone in the cottage, but there’s always pretty flowers sitting on his pillow when she does, and a short note promising his return later in the evening.

The first time she goes back to the Burrow alone, she finds all the kids out back playing Quidditch, with Gemma playing Keeper for Hermione and Ginny. Darcy doesn’t think she’s ever seen Gemma so distinctly ruffled, her hair pulled back into a tight ponytail and a sheen of sweat on her forehead, sleeves of her t-shirt rolled up to expose sunburnt shoulders as she laughs and gloats every time she makes a halfway decent save. When Darcy approaches their game, everyone stops and looks expectantly at her, especially Gemma.

“Well?” she prompts when Darcy has only stood there smiling like a fool for too long.

Darcy, with a pink tint to her cheeks, smiles even more sheepishly and shrugs, causing her friends to all cheer as one.

“Good,” comes Bill’s voice from behind her, clapping a hand on her shoulder. Darcy turns to find him grinning. “You can tell mum that you’re off the market, then. She’ll be absolutely heartbroken. Oh, and lunch is ready.”

While Mrs. Weasley doesn’t seem particularly thrilled about the sudden change in Darcy and Lupin’s public relationship, she saves her disappointed speeches, trading them in for hard glares upon witnessing their fingers laced together, or raised eyebrows when she walks into a room while they’re very close together. Once, she catches them kissing innocently in Fred and George’s room and keeps Darcy busy with chores the rest of the day (chores, Darcy realizes, that do not extend to her actual children or Harry). But Darcy doesn’t care much, it seems, and nor does Lupin. He allows her to kiss his cheek in front of onlookers, hardly flinches when she wraps her arms around him in a room full of people, will continue a conversation with someone (albeit with a wide grin) when Darcy enters a room, his eyes following her carefully. Though Mrs. Weasley does still insist rather loudly that, if Darcy wants Lupin to stay the night at the Burrow (which she also insists very sincerely that Lupin is always welcome at the Burrow), they must sleep in different rooms. They only do this once, and after everyone had gone to bed, Lupin had crept into Darcy’s makeshift bedroom and made love against the wall with many Charms in place to keep their noises to a minimum.

Everyone becomes quite used to this, seeing the apparent love that they—or Darcy, at least—harbor for each other, and this means Tonks, as well. She rarely comes round, seemingly only to appease Mrs. Weasley, sometimes staying for dinner with a morose look about her and a dullness to her words. While Darcy privately thinks Gemma can be a bit mean about it (“I mean, no offense, but he did make it clear to her that he wasn’t interested from the start, right?”), she can’t help but to take some satisfaction in the way Tonks looks at her from afar sometimes, though Darcy keeps the touching to a minimum out of respect.

She’s also very surprised at Emily’s reaction, as well. While Emily is glad to see Darcy so happy again, her anger towards Tonks is, in Darcy’s opinion, rather unprecedented.

“It’s one thing to be upset after being rejected, but she’s downright depressed,” Emily tells her friends—plus Fleur—one night as they drink outside on a blanket in the summer heat. The sun has begun to set, a reddish blaze of light in the still pink and blue sky. “I told her that there’s no use moping around over a man, and you know what she told me?”

“What?” Fleur asks eagerly, leaning forward to hear Emily better.

“She told me to fuck off,” Emily finishes, making Gemma snort with laughter.

Darcy smiles weakly, but doesn’t laugh along with the rest of her friends. Gemma, ever observant, picks up on this immediately, elbowing Darcy playfully. “Don’t let her make you feel bad,” she says sagely, and both Emily and Fleur nod along in agreement. “Em, you should just tell her to get a cat.”

“I’m only twenty!” Emily scoffs, topping off everyone’s glass with the last of the wine. “I’m not quite ready for my life to completely end just yet!”

“Hey, Emily,” Darcy says, remembering something she’d been meaning to ask. “Remus says Dumbledore’s going to be stationing Aurors down in Hogsmeade. Any chance I’ll be seeing you?”

“Damn him! It was supposed to be a secret!” Emily sighs heavily, likely reveling in the fact she can focus her anger on Lupin again, something she hasn’t been doing as often of late. “Yes, he’s asked me to check in every so often, in between working the _Prophet_ and everything. Tonks actually brought to me the idea of renting a room together from some dodgy fellow. I’m not sure if I’m interested, though. I’d like to stay with dad a little longer.”

“At least until the war is over, you mean,” Gemma says darkly, not failing to pick up her meaning, despite Emily’s cheerful tone.

“My dad’s a Muggle,” Emily explains to Fleur, who looks sympathetic in turn. “I’m worried for him. Dumbledore’s given our home as much protection as he can, but he doesn’t trust the Ministry to add to it. He says if one person infiltrates the Ministry, they could find him.”

Fleur brightens instantly, the glow about her coming back in full force. “My parents own a cottage on the coast of France! Eet ees most beautiful, Emily—I’m sure zey would be all right with letting your father stay until the ‘orrible war is over.”

Emily smiles sadly. “He won’t go,” she says, her smile fading. “He won’t leave unless I do, and I can’t just . . . go.”

They’re all quiet for a moment, and then all raise their glasses in toast to the end of the war without really having to say anything more.

To Darcy’s delight, Harry is most pleased by the turn of recent events, and deigns to tell her so while she’s washing dishes one day. Mrs. Weasley, who’d left with a great huff after Darcy insisted she’d do them by hand. It doesn’t bother her much, and it keeps some distance between herself and Mrs. Weasley. She almost protests as someone steps up beside her, but it’s only Harry, and he begins to dry the dishes as she rinses them.

“Hey, stranger,” Darcy smiles, passing him a plate. “Ron’s been keeping you busy.”

“And Lupin’s been keeping you busy, as well.” Harry smiles impishly, reminding Darcy very much of James. “Feel like I hardly know you anymore.”

“Oh, come on,” she replies, blushing. “Two more weeks and I’m practically yours.”

“Well, I’ve been meaning to talk to you. Privately.”

“Is now a good time?”

“Er—” Harry turns, his eyes lingering on the staircase half-blocked by the kitchen wall. “Maybe tonight.”

“I was going to stay with Remus tonight, but tomorrow, I promise.” Darcy suddenly feels a swooping in her stomach. “I’m sorry.”

“I don’t mind,” Harry blurts out, attempting to fight the flush that Darcy notices creeping up the back of his neck. His face never turns blotchy like hers does when she blushes, a trait she thinks is likely from her mother, given what she’d seen in Snape’s memory. “Really. I’m glad. He’s great, and I think—”

“I hope I’m not interrupting anything?”

Darcy blushes harder as Lupin enters the kitchen, already rolling up his sleeves to help Darcy finish the dishes. She and Harry exchange a sideways look, smiling sheepishly. “Harry was just telling me how _wonderful_ you are.”

“High praise,” Lupin remarks with a smile, and Darcy sees his cheeks turn pink all the same. “I think you’re quite wonderful yourself, Harry. Go on and join your friends outside. I’ll help Darcy finish up here.”

She glows with pride. Harry raises no argument and, after an almost pleading look at Darcy, she laughs and nods and he runs through the back door. She and Lupin watch after him a moment through the kitchen window, watch him mount his Firebolt and zoom right into the ongoing match without missing a beat. Lupin sighs, picking up the plate that Harry had put down and drying it slowly, occasionally looking up through the window again.

“He becomes more like James with every passing day, I think.” His tone is quiet and sad, but then he chuckles, catching Darcy off guard. “Your mother would have hated it, her two and only children looking so like him.”

Darcy glances over her shoulder to make sure they’re alone, then licks her lips and keeps her eyes fixed on the sink. “I used to hate it. Looking like my dad.”

“Why?”

“Because people always said I looked like my mother, even when I didn’t. They meant it as a compliment, another way to say that I’m pretty.” She looks up slowly at Lupin to find he’s already looking down at her. “It was like . . . because I looked like my father, I wasn’t pretty.”

“I don’t think that’s true.”

Darcy cocks an eyebrow. “What part of it?”

“That you’re not pretty because you look more like James.”

“Even you thought I looked like my mother at first,” Darcy teases, feeling slightly more at ease. Lupin’s shoulder brushes against hers and they exchange a shy smile.

“That was before I started looking at you properly.” He must be able to sense a change in her demeanor, for he drapes an arm around her shoulders, pulling her closer as they look out the window at the cluttered Quidditch match going on out back. While she’s distracted, Lupin slips his wand from his pocket and has the dishes begin to do themselves, urging Darcy away from the sink and through the back door. The heat hits her like a train, but she can now hear the shouts and cheers coming from the scrimmage. Again, they watch for a moment. “Sometimes I can’t believe he’s the same thirteen-year-old boy I taught at Hogwarts.”

Darcy purses her lips. “If you saw _me_ at thirteen, you’d say the same.” When she really thinks about it, Harry’s distinct aging can be attributed to many factors. When you’re Harry Potter, the weight of the world is left on your shoulders whether you likes= it or not, and Darcy is sure that weight has only gotten heavier upon the learning of the contents of the prophecy. And though she doesn’t want to think of it, she’s sure that Sirius’ death has had much to do with it, as well. “The burden of our last name has finally begun to catch up to him, I think.”

“For what it’s worth, I think you’ve done a wonderful job sharing that burden with him.” He places a sweet kiss on the side of her head. “It is a great show of character, the fact that you’ve shouldered most of that burden alone.”

She doesn’t answer. _You wouldn’t think that if you knew what the prophecy said. I cannot protect him from that, from Voldemort’s revenge, from Voldemort’s wrath. I can only try, and what if that’s not good enough?_ “Yeah,” she utters, which seems worse than not saying anything at all, so she attempts to amend her brief statement. “He’s growing up too fast.”

“Boys do at that age,” Lupin says, in a rather reassuring and gentle voice.

“Soon he won’t want me around at all,” she continues, watching Harry smile as he gets the Quaffle past Gemma. “I embarrass him, I think.”

“Nothing out of the ordinary. I shunned my mother far before sixteen—only in public, of course,” he says again. When she doesn’t answer right away, he squeezes her shoulders. “Harry will always remember what you’ve done for him, even if he is a little embarrassed at times. He’s just a teenager. Don’t worry.”

Darcy wipes her eyes, not really ashamed of crying—especially not over Harry—but more annoyed that her body has chosen now to cry for the first time in what seems like weeks. “I can’t help it.” She smiles fondly at Harry as he glances over towards her, hovering a few feet off the ground on his Firebolt, just watching on curiously for a moment. “He’s my boy.”

_The only child I’ll ever have._

“You promised you’d take me to Diagon Alley today,” she says abruptly, and Lupin raises his eyebrows almost warily.

“I did,” he affirms, rubbing the beard on his face. “You want to go now?”

Darcy nods. “I want to see the joke shop, and I want you to buy me an ice cream.”

“Sorry, love, but Florean Fortescue's business isn’t looking so good. He’s been missing since the end of July.” Lupin winces, as if suddenly regretting his decision to speak this fact out loud. Darcy can’t say she’s very shocked—according to Emily, half of Diagon Alley is closed down due to strange disappearances of the shop owners. “I could buy you something else?”

She looks up at him, the sunlight making her squint painfully, blocking the other tears that threaten to flow. “I love you, did you know that?”

Lupin gives her one of his self-satisfied smiles. “I had an inkling.”

He leans in to kiss her, and just as Darcy’s eyes flutter closed, Mrs. Weasley’s voice shouts from the back doorway, “There will be none of that! There are _children_ here!”

Darcy and Lupin jump away from each other, blushing. Sighing in frustration, Lupin murmurs, “I’ll make it up to you in earnest when we get home.”


	7. Chapter 7

Diagon Alley is, for lack of a better word, sad.

She remembers well the first time she had come to Hogwarts—it had been at the side of none other than Albus Dumbledore, and he had allowed her to go where she pleased, into any shop she wanted. She had been a wide-eyed child that day, eleven-years-old and suddenly exposed to a world she had forgotten ever existed, full of magic and wonders beyond her wildest dreams. Florean Fortescue had given them free ice cream (Darcy a strawberry cone and Dumbledore a pistachio cone, which had gotten stuck in his silvery beard and made her laugh), Ollivander had been thrilled to help Darcy find a wand (it had taken only two tries before finding one that fit well with her), and Madam Malkin had been rather flustered upon seeing Dumbledore and Darcy Potter stride into her shop with bemused smiles and ice cream drippings down the front of their clothes.

Darcy had fallen in love with Diagon Alley that day, and had hated it at the same time. The fact that Harry hadn’t been there to experience it with her for the first time had upset her. Darcy watched the students pass them by with their parents, and Darcy had envied them. She had _hated_ them for having parents to come with them to such a special place. Instead of James and Lily walking their children through the streets of Diagon Alley by the hand, Dumbledore had followed her around like a distant grandfather she’d only just met again, had introduced her to people she’d never heard of before but were very important.

This is nothing like that Diagon Alley.

_Another thing this war has taken._

Florean Fortescue’s ice cream shop is boarded up, the boards plastered with posters of wanted Death Eaters. Even Ollivander’s is closed, the windows shattered and the door hanging off its hinges (Lupin tells her quietly that the Order suspects foul play regarding Ollivander’s disappearance). They both clutch each other’s hands tightly, as if expecting someone to jump out at them and kidnap one of them. It isn’t so, but Darcy doesn’t like some of the leers people give them. All along the cobblestone street leading towards the great, beautiful, marble building that is Gringotts, makeshift stalls have been set up selling clearly fake defensive items, meant to ward off werewolves and like from the owner and wearer.

When one of these dodgy looking characters approaches her with a silver amulet, nearly forcing it on over her head to protect her from all kinds of magical beasts, Darcy yelps and Lupin pulls her away roughly by the hand.

“I don’t need one,” she pants, fixing her hair where the amulet had gotten tangled in it. Held fast against Lupin’s chest, her cheek pressed just over his heart, she can hear it beating rapidly.

“Let’s go,” he murmurs into her hair as the man retreats back behind his stand. “Before he figures out who you are.”

After that, Darcy tries to finish her shopping as quickly as possible. She spends the longest in the apothecary (thankfully still open), where she takes care to detail upon buying her ingredients, using all of the methods Professor Snape had taught her over the previous year about how to find the best ingredients. She touches and smells and squeezes and puts things to her ear and asks the clerk question after question, and she knows she’s being annoying and she knows she’s being exasperating, but she leaves with only the best ingredients for her classes, and it makes her happy, so Lupin doesn’t complain.

Their last stop is something they’ve both been looking forward to, and it doesn’t seem to disappoint. Darcy and Lupin step up to the front of Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes with wide eyes. In the display window are things that seem to have been made just to catch someone’s eye. It’s a dazzling display of prank items that spin and squeal, whistle and flash, pop and burst like fireworks. Darcy can’t help but to laugh while watching them through the glass, and she takes Lupin by the hand again, pulling him into the shop.

It seems that this is where all of the shoppers are packed into. Darcy has to squeeze Lupin’s hand to keep from losing him amongst everyone. This is a hundred times what Zonko’s is, she thinks. There are Skiving Snackboxes lining the walls, U-No-Poo (which Darcy hates to admit is exactly what it sounds like), love potions and Patented Daydream Charms, Exploding Snap cards, Invisibility and Shield Hats, and quills that are able to do almost anything under the sun. Everything is bright, clashing, drawing their attention to one thing only until they catch sight of another brighter sign from the corner of their eyes. Students arms are full of items, others beg their parents for just a bit more extra change, young girls giggle around love potions with their friends, giving other boys sideways looks with bright red cheeks. Some students recognize Darcy and Lupin right away, and they’re stopped several times to say hello before the kids dash back off to their parents.

It’s extraordinary, and when Darcy looks up at Lupin to gauge his reaction, she falls more in love with him than she thought possible. It’s as if the years have melted right off—his eyes are alight with excitement, his lips stretched tight, teeth bared in a broad smile across his face, causing his eyes to crinkle at the corners, just the way that Darcy likes. He’s light on his feet as they make their way deeper into the store, somewhat taller without the heavy weight of his condition constantly weighing on his shoulders. Though she’s seen pictures of him as a young man, this is something else, something different, something magical in its own right. This is Remus Lupin, aged seventeen—this is Moony, one of the four Marauders and prankster extraordinaire, and she wishes desperately that she’d been around to see him like this everyday.

“Your dad and Sirius would have loved this,” he says, picking up an Edible Dark Mark and chuckling as he reads the back of the box. “They’d surely have bought the entire shop . . . or at least attempted to partner with Fred and George.”

“You reckon?”

They both spin around quickly at the sound of the voice to find Fred and George making their way towards them, wearing magenta robes. Fred looks delighted at Lupin’s comment, and they all shakes hands, hugging Darcy in turn and kissing her quickly on both cheeks.

“Have you seen everything yet?” George asks, looking around his shop with pride, his arms folded over his chest.

“Will we ever?” Darcy laughs. “How could you have possibly thought all of this stuff up?” She reaches to her right, past Lupin, picking up something from a large, wooden box. “Like . . . Decoy Detonators? Where did you think up something like this?”

“Believe it or not, we’ve been thinking this stuff up for a lot longer than you think,” Fred jokes, winking at her. “And we couldn’t have done it without you, Darce. Anything you want, you can have.”

“Oh!” Darcy gasps, shaking her head and pushing the Decoy Detonator back into Fred’s hands as he tries to push it back into hers. “No, please, I’ll pay—it wasn’t my money to begin with.”

“Fine,” Fred smiles sweetly. “Then anything you want, you can have simply because we like you so much and we know you were giving us passing grades on our Potions homework to keep Snape from throwing a fit.”

Darcy blushes furiously. Lupin gives her a scandalized look before laughing heartily. “I didn’t want your mother giving you a hard time upon finding out your homework was shite,” she replies meekly. “Not that it really mattered in the end.”

Lupin looks suddenly curious, but there’s still a mischievous smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “If you don’t my asking, where did you get the money for all this? Diagon Alley isn’t particularly cheap, and this is . . . _incredible_ , to say the least.”

George cocks an eyebrow at Darcy. “You didn’t tell him?”

“It wasn’t my secret to tell,” she says with an apologetic look at Lupin, but he doesn’t seem at all offended.

Fred is the one who answers. “Harry gave us his Triwizard winnings to find the shop, and before you ask, Darcy—yes, he has first pick at whatever is in the shop,” he says, holding up a hand to stop Darcy from asking a question she wasn’t going to ask in the first place. It still makes her smile, and even more so when Fred turns next to Lupin. “And we definitely couldn’t have done it without you, mate, even if we didn’t know who you were for the better part of our life. Do you have any idea how many times we would have been found if it hadn’t been for that map? Genius, it is. Your money’s no good here, either, and not just because you’re one quarter creator of the Marauder’s Map.”

“Yeah,” George adds, giving Darcy a cheeky smile. “Consider free things an added bonus of being arm candy for our friend, the Darcy Potter.”

“Those added bonuses just keep piling up, don’t they?” Lupin murmurs in her ear.   
He smiles warmly, speaking louder to Fred and George again. “Glad I could assist with the creative process, even in passing,” he laughs. Darcy can’t help but to admire him, blushing furiously when George catches her staring, wriggling his eyebrows.

Both Darcy and Lupin leave with bags full of things, both talking excitedly about the joke shop. Lupin reminisces for a while about he and his friends going to Zonko’s beneath the Invisibility Cloak, sneaking down to Hogsmeade through the one-eyed witch passageway that Harry had used before. The way he tells it makes Darcy feel she was actually there, sneaking into Honeydukes at his side, holding onto his hand much like she is now, looking up at him with the same adoring look she is now. His smile seems to come so easily to him, a smile that reminds Darcy of the ones he’d flash her across the Great Hall, or in the corridors, or even when they met eyes across the classroom. Nothing about his demeanor seems forced, and Darcy unclenches her jaw, loosens her grip on Lupin’s hand, relaxes her shoulders. She can’t help but to wonder how talking about better days with Sirius can make Lupin so happy.

He’s quick to catch on, stopping abruptly in the middle of his sentence as they stop along the street where no one can bother them to buy sketchy wares. “You’re somewhere far from Diagon Alley right now, love,” he sighs lovingly, raising a hand to tuck some of her hair behind her ears. “Was I boring you?”

“No, go on,” she insists, looking away to hide the distant look that’s no doubt in her eyes. “I’m only thinking.”

“About?”

Darcy looks up into his almost too understanding face. “I miss him.”

“I know. I do, too.”

His words—such simple words—bring her such comfort. To have an equal among this suffering (does he consider them equals, or does he believe his suffering to be worse? hadn’t he told her once that it wasn’t a competition?) brings her hope, two things she lacked before, when it was her parents she mourned. He is so open with her, so honest and vulnerable, everything she needed all of her life, but never realized until he came to Hogwarts.

“I like you like this,” she says.

“I hope you like me the rest of the time, too.”

“You know that I do.”

Darcy wraps her arms around his middle, he drapes an arm around her almost habitually, and they disappear from Diagon Alley with a _crack!_

* * *

“Come in!”

It’s only Harry, and he catches her still trying to Vanish the cigarette smoke from the room, wand in one hand and a small, paperback book held open in the other. Darcy’s rather relieved it’s only Harry, and she abandons her attempt at cleaning the air with a wand, simply wandering over to the window and opening it as much as she can to get some fresh air inside. She knows that, while Harry never complains (except every so often by scrunching his nose) about the cloud of smoke that must follow her constantly, he probably doesn’t care very much for smelling it all the time.

“Hey,” she says distractedly, marking her page and closing her book. “All right?”

Harry seats himself on George’s bed, the one Darcy has claimed for her own for the summer. “Sorry I made you stay here,” he says. “But it’s important.”

“Sure,” Darcy smiles, sitting on the bed with him. “Remus doesn’t like me staying with him so close to the full moon, anyway. Something I intend to change in the next coming months.” She laughs softly, but catches Harry’s eye and falters. He looks far too serious, too grave. Pointing her wand at the door, she says quickly, “ _Muffliato_. What’s going on, Harry?”

For a moment, judging by his expression—more that of a man than a boy—Darcy thinks he’s going to bring up the prophecy, or Voldemort. Then he takes a deep breath and says, “When we went to Diagon Alley, Malfoy was there—” The mention of this particular name makes Darcy’s skin crawl, but she lets Harry go on. “—and he had escaped his mother’s side to go off on his own.”

“And you, Hermione, and Ron followed him?” Darcy asks, stifling a smile. Harry smiles back embarrassedly, shrugging his shoulders. “And did you catch him doing anything?”

“Yes! Well, sort of . . . we found him in Knockturn Alley, in Borgin and Burkes, talking to the bloke there. Borgin, I think he was.” Harry runs a hand through his dark hair, mussing it up. “Malfoy needed Borgin to tell him how to fix something, but he wouldn’t say what. And he wanted something else in the shop kept for him, but . . . I don’t know what. He threatened Borgin with a visit from Fenrir Greyback.”

Darcy’s mouth goes dry. Just the thought of Greyback makes chills shoot down her spine, causing her to twitch involuntarily. However, the thought of Draco Malfoy doesn’t frighten her half as much, especially with Lucius in Azkaban, hopefully to rot there for the rest of his life. “Your important news was that Draco Malfoy was found in Borgin and Burkes? No offense, Harry, but he isn’t the first to frequent that shop, and just because he wanted some foul gift or whatever it was, doesn’t really tell us much that we don’t already know about him.”

A muscle jumps in Harry’s jaw. “I think he’s a Death Eater.”

Darcy hesitates, her mouth slightly open. To proclaim somethin so bluntly, something so serious, makes her wary. She’s almost tempted to give him a healthy _wack!_ upside the head, but she doesn’t want to hit him in the first place. Sure, Lucius Malfoy is a terrible person and he’s a Death Eater, and sure, Draco Malfoy is a brat and is obnoxious and mean, but that doesn’t make him a Death Eater. Not that she speaks for Voldemort, but Darcy can’t imagine Voldemort bringing on a young kid, even to replace his father.

“Harry, do you have . . . any proof?”

“Proof?” Harry snaps, looking offended. “I’ve just told you, he was looking in Borgin and Burkes and he showed Burke something, and it’s probably the Dark Mark! Draco Malfoy has the Dark Mark branded on his arm!”

“That’s not proof if you didn’t see it,” she replies. “You don’t even know what he wanted to have fixed?”

“His father was a Death Eater, and now he’s in Azkaban,” Harry says, jumping from the bed and pacing, eyes wide open behind his glasses. “Don’t you think Malfoy would want revenge? And we saw him in Madam Malkin’s, and he wouldn’t let her touch his arm!”

“Harry, please, be sensible. He’s only sixteen—”

“So?”

“So do you really think Voldemort would want a sixteen-year-old in his ranks?”

“You sound like Ron and Hermione. They think the same.” He hisses it at her, and Darcy frowns.

“Well, maybe they’re right,” she argues. “He’s far too young to be carrying out Voldemort’s orders, and Voldemort would know that.”

“How do you know that? How do you know that Voldemort wouldn’t want someone to replace Lucius?” Harry growls through gritted teeth, tugging at his hair in his attempt to make Darcy understand. “How do you explain what happened in Diagon Alley and Borgin and Burkes if he isn’t a Death Eater?”

“I don’t know,” Darcy answers truthfully. “I wasn’t there to see it, but I’m sure there are plenty of explanations. Accusing someone of being a Death Eater is serious, Harry. If you don’t have proof of it, then you shouldn’t be telling people.”

“This isn’t just someone,” Harry retorts. “It’s Malfoy—”

“He’s just a _boy_!” Darcy counters, growing increasingly frustrated. “As cruel as he can be, that’s all he is.”

Harry’s face is stony when he stops pacing and looks at her, his arms crossed over his chest. “You don’t believe me.”

“You haven’t presented me any actual, hard evidence.” Darcy sighs heavily, laying back on the bed. “If you want to find out for yourself if Draco Malfoy is a Death Eater, then ask Gemma.”

Suddenly, his eyes light up with excitement. This is clearly not something he’d thought of before, and Darcy feels almost sorry for suggesting it, but if anyone would know, it’s Gemma. Then again, if Draco Malfoy had become a Death Eater, wouldn’t Gemma have thought to bring that up? Wouldn’t that have been something important that everyone would have knowledge of? It’s not like Gemma to keep such things from them—or the Order, anyway—and Darcy can’t imagine her storing that juicy piece of information away. She trusts Gemma, with her life. And it’s this that makes Darcy doubt Harry so, but still, a small part of her is nervous. What if she’d forgotten to mention it? What if Harry’s right, even with his lack of evidence?

“Yeah,” he says, mostly to himself as he swings the bedroom door open, looking very sure of himself. “All right. Fine. I’ll ask Gemma.”

* * *

“You’re going to be hot with that on.”

“It’s what I always wear.” Lupin shrugs, unbuttoning a single button upon his shirt, hardly revealing anymore chest than what was visible before. Darcy only shakes her head. “Besides, sweaty and overheated is a good look for me. Gives me some color in my cheeks.” He gives his own face a gentle slap and smiles at her reflection.

Darcy laughs softly, moving closer to him in front of the mirror as he rolls the cuffs of his shirt up, not quite far enough to reveal any of the bite mark on his arm. She takes his wrist, pushing up his sleeve the way she’d done to Professor Snape upon looking closely at his Dark Mark. There is no Dark Mark here, however, only self-inflicted scars from all the nights he’d been forced to tear himself apart, and the bite mark that has been the physical source of self-hatred since he was only a child. The imprints of each individual fang that sank into his four-year-old flesh, like a gruesome blister, tough to the touch, but smooth. Darcy brings it to her lips and kisses it, making the corners of Lupin’s lips twitch of their own accord.

“I’d rather you be comfortable than hot,” Darcy tells him, allowing his arm to wrap around her, pulling her to his chest so they’re both able to see each other in the mirror.

“You look very pretty,” he tells her. “I like that dress on you.”

Darcy blushes. “Don’t deflect. You’ve told me that about thirteen times already. But thank you.” She turns in his hold and kisses his shoulder lightly. “It’s only us. We all know you’ve got a bite somewhere.”

“Thinking about my bite and seeing it are two completely different things,” he argues, not unkindly, rolling his sleeve back down over it. “If I’m being honest, I’d rather no one even think about my bite at all.” Lupin takes a step back from Darcy to look her up and down again. “You do like really nice in that dress.”

“Thank you.”

He cocks his head to the side. “I’d like it much better off of you,” he grins. “It would look _terribly_ nice on my floor.”

Darcy laughs as he kisses the crook of her neck. “We’ll be late to the party, and don’t forget—it’s _for_ me.”

“Everyone knows the party doesn’t technically start until the guest of honor arrives,” he purrs, kissing up her neck. “Besides, I thought you didn’t want a party to begin with?”

“I didn’t,” Darcy insists, unable to hide her smile, goosebumps erupting up and down her body as his lips touch the skin below her ear. “But Gemma convinced me. An early birthday party is a perfect excuse to get drunk.”

“Sounds like a perfect excuse to bring you back here tonight.” Lupin smiles against her skin, tugging lightly at the neckline of her dress to peek at her scars. Darcy slaps his hand away. “All right, we’ll go now. Don’t wear anything under that dress.”

Darcy flushes crimson, rounding on him as he makes towards the bedroom door. “Excuse me?”

He stops in the threshold, leaning against the frame and crossing his arms. “I said,” he repeats slowly. “Don’t wear anything underneath your dress.”

“I’m not going to expose myself to the Weasleys—to my brother,” Darcy scoffs, feeling much too warm. “Whatever filthy things you’re planning can wait until tonight when I’m nice and submissive and drunk, can’t they?”

“You’re a tease, you know that?” Lupin raises his eyebrows, his smile not once flickering. “Coming or not?”

Darcy sighs. “Maybe just a kiss wouldn’t hurt first.”

He starts towards her almost at once, one of his eyebrows raised. “Oh?” As soon as Lupin reaches her, his hand finds the zipper of her dress, tugging it down. Darcy shrugs out of it, letting it pool around her feet.

“They’ll all know what we’ve been doing,” Darcy whispers, his hand cupping her breast and squeezing gently.

Lupin hums against her shoulder. “The scandal of a century,” he teases, placing featherlight kisses all over her face. “We’re both adults. They already know what we’re doing.”

She blushes, privately quite pleased. “You’re getting rather bold, aren’t you?”

“Do you think I give a damn if people know I’m sleeping with you?” he asks her in a tone that makes her stomach flutter madly, heat surging between her thighs. “You think I give a damn what Molly thinks after the stunt she pulled the first time I brought you back here?” Lupin pulls back from her, and Darcy’s surprised to see anger flashing in his eyes, lust momentarily forgotten, even as she stands almost completely naked in front of him. “How dare she stand there and claim to know what’s best for you? How dare she stand there and claim to speak for James and Lily and Sirius?”

The thought makes her squirm uncomfortably. So consumed with her loving him, Darcy hasn’t given much thought as to what Sirius would want at all, and it makes her feel guilty. If he could see them now, smiling and laughing and fucking like rabbits after what happened to him only back in June, what would he say? What would her parents say if they could see the situation Darcy has gladly and willingly thrown herself into?

“They’d want us to be happy,” she says softly, reaching for Lupin’s hand and twining their fingers together. “Wouldn’t they? They’d be happy that we’ve found comfort in each other.” Darcy gives him a pleading expression, hoping he’ll tell her what she wants to hear instead of the cold truth. “Wouldn’t they?”

“Are you done soliloquizing?” Lupin asks with a laugh. “Listen, love, if your parents were alive today, I would gladly stand up before them and tell them what you mean to me.”

Darcy cocks an eyebrow, a smile tugging at her lips. “Would you?”

He gives an embarrassed, crooked smile, as if she’s seen right through him. “All right, so maybe it would take me awhile to build up to that moment,” he confesses sheepishly. “But you have to see these things from my point of view. We’ve every reason not to be together.”

“Do we?” Darcy brings his hand to her lips, kissing his fingers.

Lupin sighs, smiling weakly down at her. “I’m not a young man anymore, Darcy, and my lycanthropy does nothing for it.”

“Oh, but I love that about you,” Darcy rasps, unbuttoning another button on his shirt to kiss his chest. His heart beats frantically against her lips. “Go on, then. What other reasons are there that we shouldn’t be together?”

It seems the words come almost too easily to his lips, even as Darcy kisses his chest again. “You’re James and Lily’s daughter.”

Darcy hums against his skin. “But you’ve known that for years now. Try again.”

“I’m dangerous. I could hurt you. I have.” With each kiss, Lupin’s breath becomes shorter and shorter, and when Darcy unbuttons another button to kiss further down his sternum, he sucks in a deep breath.

“Only once, and you’re only dangerous once a month without your potion. I’m not afraid of you.” It’s the truth, even if he doesn’t take it as such. “Anything else?” Darcy unbuttons another button, another, another, until his shirt is completely open and she’s able to touch the scars on his stomach, the one below his navel that always makes him—

“ _Christ_ ,” he breathes as her fingers glide across it. “I have nothing to offer you.”

“I’ve already everything I need.” Darcy looks up innocently at him, smiling sweetly. “Do you have any reasons we should be together? Or do you just spend your time dwelling on the reasons we shouldn’t?”

“That’s easy,” Lupin answers in a shaky voice, watching her middle finger move back and forth across the angry scar. “I’m selfish and I love you.”

“That’s all?”

“No,” he insists, albeit softly. “You bring me comfort.”

“I hope so. That was my intention all along, you know.”

“You don’t have to be cheeky about it.” Lupin grabs her wrist as she makes to trace the scar again, causing her to look up into his face.

“I’m not being cheeky about it. I’m being honest.” Darcy pulls her hand away, his grip around her wrist loosening and then releasing her completely. She kisses his cheek instead, pressing her bare front to his and wrapping her arms around him. His fingers move lightly up and down her spine, almost in a distracted way. “After everything that’s happened to me—to us—don’t you think we deserve to be happy?”

Lupin rests his scratchy cheek against the top of her head. “Everything that has made me happy has gone away in the end,” he says. “It’s hard to allow myself this happiness when all I can think about is how I could lose you.”

Darcy inhales deeply and clears her throat. “Well, I’m here now, and I’m not going anywhere at the moment.” She touches his chest, pushing off his shirt and letting it slide down his strong arms to the floor with her dress. “So maybe you could take advantage of this moment in time and make love to me like you were planning on doing?”

A genuine smile, albeit a small one, graces his face then. “How could I ever say ‘no’ to you when you ask so damn sweetly?”

Darcy chuckles. “I could beg for it. Would you like that?”

“Very much.”

* * *

“Sorry we’re late, Molly. Darcy had a slight . . . wardrobe malfunction.”

Mrs. Weasley glares at Lupin, taking in his ruffled and disheveled appearance and his flushed cheeks, eyeing the love bites and bruises at the base of his neck peeking over the collar of his shirt. She sees right through his toothy smile, a little too wide, a little too guilty. Darcy watches him apologize from a table a few yards away, sipping on champagne with her friends.

“A wardrobe malfunction?” Gemma asks, wriggling her eyebrows at Darcy, seated on her left. “Did you go to Paris and back to get a new dress?”

“Certainly not,” Darcy says. “I just picked it right up off his floor where I’d left it.”

“Are you sure it’s not _you_ who’s the werewolf?” Emily titters, giving Darcy a scandalized look. “Why is it that everytime we see the two of you, _he’s_ the one covered in bites?”

“I guess it’s just my animalistic nature,” Darcy jokes, shrugging her shoulders and taking some grapes off Emily’s plate. “You know me.”

Darcy, Gemma, and Emily laugh quietly. They wait until Mrs. Weasley walks away from Lupin and wait until he turns to them, giving Darcy in particular an exasperated look before wandering off to find someone to talk to, before speaking again. “I wouldn’t mind having someone to fuck,” Gemma sighs, her eyes following Lupin too closely. Darcy swats her in the arm, but Gemma only sighs dramatically again. “I’m in half a mind to fall in love before it’s too late.”

This gives Darcy pause. Not wanting to reveal too much to Emily, she decides to simply ask, “Are you?”

Gemma meets her eyes for a split second, communicating silently very bluntly, but not unkindly, that she has not forgotten about Sirius. “Maybe if the bloke was good at fucking.” She laughs and shifts awkwardly, reaching into her jacket pocket for a pack of cigarettes. “Maybe I’m just lonely.”

As she raises one to her lips, there’s an incoherent screech, and the cigarette turns to ash between Gemma’s fingers as a harassed looking Mrs. Weasley is caught pointing her wand at it. “Not around children!” she snaps. “If you must do it, then do it in your own backyard!”

“Whatever,” Gemma snarls quietly to Mrs. Weasley’s back. “I’ll just light up on the other side of the house. Come on, I need to talk to you about something anyway.”

“Is it about fucking?” Emily asks with a bored expression. “Or have we moved on to a less crude subject?”

“You could use some fucking, Em,” Gemma chortles, getting to her feet and beckoning them both to follow her. “Get rid of that stick up your arse.”

Emily doesn’t give Gemma the satisfaction of a smug answer, deciding to keep quiet. Darcy and Emily follow Gemma round the other side of the house, on the edge of the yard to stand underneath the shade of a tall tree with long branches and leaves that are already turning yellow and orange. Almost as soon as they’re out of sight, cigarettes are passed around and lit. Darcy isn’t quite sure why she continues to smoke them other than the cliché reasoning of “to take the edge off”. But as the three of them share a comfortable silence, puffing on their cigarettes, knowingly killing themselves with each long drag, Darcy feels like she’s back in seventh year again and feels _this_ is why she still smokes.

Gemma leans closer to the two of them. “You know something funny,” she whispers, the smile wiped clean off her face as she takes off her sunglasses to look dead into Darcy’s eyes. “Your brother asked me if Draco Malfoy was a Death Eater just earlier.”

Emily scoffs. “He what?”

Darcy freezes, not failing to notice Gemma hasn’t yet denied it. “And what did you tell him?”

Gemma traces her teeth with her tongue for a moment. “He gave me his evidence, and it seems likely that he’s onto something,” she says carefully, weighing every word in the very Slytherin way she has about her. “But Draco is sixteen, and even You-Know-Who isn’t fool enough to bring some brooding kid into his circle of devoted followers.”

“Draco Malfoy? A Death Eater?” Emily frowns, seemingly taking this information very seriously. The gears work loudly inside of her head as she holds her burning cigarette mere inches from her lips, eyes narrowed. “Well, hold on. That doesn’t seem so out of character for Voldemort, does it? I mean, whenever Sirius and Remus talked about the first war, they always mentioned how there were loads of Death Eaters in Hogwarts—”

“ _Wannabe_ Death Eaters,” Gemma interrupts firmly. “Anyone is free to support and fight for You-Know-Who, but I highly doubt anyone was branded with the Dark Mark in Hogwarts.”

“Maybe he’s getting desperate,” Emily persists, shrugging her shoulders. “Maybe, with Lucius in Azkaban . . . tell me what Harry said.”

Darcy relays to Emily what Harry had confided in her just recently, and Gemma fills in the gaps. It all seems like a bunch of coincidences instead of proof.

“I don’t know,” Darcy finishes slowly, feeling that without any hard evidence, it’s a far-fetched belief. Draco Malfoy, though raised by a Death Eater and in Slytherin House and overtly cruel at times, surely is no more than a spoiled brat? Darcy has never harbored any soft spot for the boy, but it takes a different kind of person to become a Death Eater, she thinks, not just a schoolyard bully. “Draco just . . . doesn’t seem the type. He definitely seems the type to talk himself up, to make himself seem more important, and that explains what he’d told Burke in Borgin and Burkes.”

“Fenrir Greyback, though . . .” Emily frowns, and Gemma takes a long and noisy pull off her cigarette. “That’s a serious threat, and a scary one. You think he’s just making it up?”

“I find it hard to believe Greyback would do a sixteen-year-old kid any personal favors,” Gemma snorts, but there’s hardly any humor in her tone. “It’s more likely Draco is doing something in return for his father being sent to Azkaban, and Greyback is just along for the ride.” She looks over her shoulders, checking to make sure no one is hiding just out of sight or listening in. “Listen, this is dangerous territory. If you’re not careful—if Harry isn’t careful—you could get seriously hurt. If you think there aren’t kids at Hogwarts whose parents would be glad to see you dead, then you’re wrong.”

Darcy and Emily exchange a nervous, sideways glance. “Dumbledore is there, and he’s bringing extra security and adding extra protection to Hogwarts. I’ll be safe.”

“And You-Know-Who knows that,” Gemma says even quieter, the smoke from her cigarette streaming up Darcy’s nostrils. “Guarantee his first target is Dumbledore, not Harry.”

“You reckon?” Emily asks, a fearful look upon her face.

With a sense of urgency and another quick scan of the empty front lawn, Gemma stamps her cigarette out. “Look, my parents are loathe to tell me much to do with You-Know-Who or his Death Eaters, but I’ll ask about Draco.”

“I can talk to Professor Snape, but I don’t think he’d tell me if he knew,” Darcy adds, feeling a sinking in her stomach as both Gemma and Emily nod.

“Oh, shit—I can hear someone coming,” Emily hisses, and Darcy listens carefully. Sure enough, she can hear the familiar, heavy footfalls on the dying grass. Emily quickly Vanishes her cigarette, reaching deep into her sweatshirt pocket to spray all of them with perfume. “Darcy, put your cigarette out!”

She laughs, taking the last pull of her cigarette. “It’s only Remus. Look.”

It is, in fact, Lupin who comes round the side of the house, looking suspiciously over his shoulder. He hurries over to them, standing between Darcy and Gemma and huffing. Emily looks at Darcy with a look of pure shock. “You could tell it was him simply by his footsteps?”

Darcy smiles sweetly as Lupin’s arm wraps around her shoulders. Gemma offers him a cigarette. “Molly wants to do presents,” Lupin says, allowing Darcy to light the tip of his cigarette with her wand. “She knows what you’re doing over here, you know.”

“We aren’t scared of Mrs. Weasley,” Gemma jokes. “Are you? Running over here like that? Does the big bad wolf need protection from Molly Weasley?”

Lupin gives Gemma a hard stare, not at all amused. “You’d want to get away, as well, if she treated you the way she treats me. She’s a kind woman, truly!” he adds quickly when they all give him very similar, skeptical looks. “When she wants to be, and to whom she wants to be. You’d think I was a child, the way she speaks to me.”

“The price of hanging out with young girls all the time,” Emily says, spraying him once with her perfume before putting it back into her pocket. He scrunches his nose and sighs exasperatedly. “Soon you’ll turn into one. I think you’ll be pretty.”

“I imagine it’s more something to do with the dramatic entrance you and Darcy made,” Gemma grins, reaching up to his collar and pulling it aside, able to show off the myriad of bruises on his neck where Darcy had marked him before Lupin slaps her hand away, scowling heavily at her. “Come on, you come here looking like that, of course she’s going to give you a hard time, you morons.”

“No need to get handsy,” Lupin hisses. “I get your point.”

“Do we have to do presents?” Darcy groans. “I’ve just gotten here and I haven’t even had enough champagne to see me through that process yet.”

“No! Let’s do presents,” Emily protests, looking far too happy for her own good. “Harry and I got you a joint gift that I know you’re going to love.”

Darcy groans louder. “I hate surprises. Why couldn’t we have just had a regular party that was just for the fuck of it? Or we could have just gotten drunk in Fred and George’s room if that’s all you wanted.”

“What? Don’t like being put on display?” Gemma asks with raised eyebrows, her dark eyes sparkling in the sunlight. “Come on, this was the only time all of us could be together to celebrate your birthday. Once you’re at Hogwarts again, it’ll be difficult for us all to be together at the same time.”

“Once presents are done, we’ll get you nice and drunk,” Emily says matter-of-factly. “Fleur’s got some really good Pastis her father sent her from France.”

“What is that?” Darcy asks.

“Dunno,” Emily answers. “But she promised me it would get us really drunk.”

“You know, I quite like her,” Gemma says thoughtfully, tapping her chin with her index finger and looking up at the clouds through her dark sunglasses, now placed back on her face and sitting precariously upon the bridge of her sharp nose. “Dunno why Mrs. Weasley hates her—”

“Hate is a strong word,” Emily frowns, looking guilty. “Maybe . . . dislike?”

“No,” Darcy says. “Mrs. Weasley definitely hates her. And Hermione and Ginny only hate her because she catches everyone’s attention. They’re only jealous.” She looks up at Lupin, catching him off guard with the cigarette still between his lips as he listens to their mindless chatter. “Have you been keeping your eyes to yourself, too?”

He answers without hesitation. “I’m not interested in blondes.”

Emily hums, flipping her honey blonde hair. “I’m going to remember that.”

“Oh?” Lupin scoffs. “Two years ago you wouldn’t even say my name to my face, and you’re telling me now that you’d be receptive to any advances from me?”

Emily flushes, but Lupin seems pleased with the effect his words have caused her. Darcy and Gemma join their laughter with his for a moment.

Gemma then snickers at Darcy. “Let’s not pretend you haven’t hated anyone out of sheer jealousy.”

“I never _hated_ her,” Darcy retorts sharply, blushing. She glances sideways at Lupin as he puts out his cigarette, arm still draped around her, looking as if he hasn’t a clue who they’re talking about. “And if I did, it wasn’t because I was jealous.”

Gemma and Emily look at each, not bothering to their expressions from Darcy, ones of disbelief and mild eye rolls.

“Shut the fuck up,” Darcy hisses, bending down suddenly to pick up a handful of soggy leaves, throwing them at Gemma and Emily. The girls all shriek with laughter, breaking their circle apart and throwing more leaves at each other, Darcy using Lupin as a human shield before dashing off as Mrs. Weasley calls them back to the party.

* * *

Darcy tries to keep the gift giving going as quickly as possible. Most of it is edible—mince pies from Mrs. Weasley, chocolate frogs and Bertie Bott’s from Ron, more prank items from Fred and George (with a love potion hidden in a bottle of perfume), chocolates with firewhisky in the middle from Mr. Weasley, a book on particularly complicated Potions from Hermione and Ginny, a bottle of wine and a new cardigan from Gemma, exotic, nearly blooming plants from Bill and Fleur, new books (with writings scribbled in all the margins) from Lupin. And finally, Emily and Harry smile eagerly as Mrs. Weasley passes Darcy their gift.

To her surprise, when she unwraps it, she doesn’t know what else to do other than blink. Sitting in her lap is a heavy briefcase, and upon opening it, she finds typewriter very much like the one Mrs. Tuttle owned. This one is brand new, however, the keys still polished and untouched, the paper they’ve given her with it still crisp and white as snow. Emily and Harry have also seemingly put cleaning supplies in the briefcase, as well, everything she needs to care for the typewriter. Darcy stammers for a moment as everyone begins to talk excitedly to Harry and Emily, and Mr. Weasley takes a very quick interest in it, asking questions that Darcy doesn’t even know the answers to.

“Where did you get this?” Darcy asks Emily, lifting it gingerly (or as gingerly as she can, it being relatively heavy) to inspect all sides, the top and the bottom.

“Harry and I were talking about how much you loved going to the Tuttles’ over the summer, and he mentioned you’d liked the typewriter, so we wanted to get you one to take with you to Hogwarts,” Emily smiles, blue eyes wide and full of joy. “And then Gemma and I went to that market you’re so fond of, and it was sitting right there at some stand, and so I bought it.”

“But you shouldn’t have!” Darcy says breathlessly, placing the typewriter back in the briefcase. She finds Harry amongst the crowd, holding out a hand for him to take. To her pleasure, he does, allowing Darcy to pull him to her. She kisses his head and wraps her free arm around his skinny waist. “Thank you—everyone, thank you.”

Once gifts are done, the sun begins to darken and set behind the tall hills that surround the Burrow. Mrs. Weasley has made all of Darcy’s favorite foods, has cooked the meat rarer than she normally does, and she’s even made a three-tier cake to celebrate Darcy’s third year returning to Hogwarts as someone’s apprentice (but she much prefers the homemade cake Harry has made for her, which receives so many compliments from her friends that Harry actually begins to blush). Dinner is lively and loud, especially as everyone starts to drink more and more—Mr. Weasley has a healthy flush upon his face by dessert, Emily is swaying in her seat while still able to carry a halfway coherent conversation with Fleur, and Darcy’s laughter is loudest of all, carrying over the amplified wireless playing through the kitchen window.

It might be the best night of her life, especially as it wears on. Kingsley and Mad-Eye Moody stop by with some more Potions books that seem so advanced Darcy confesses she might need to ask Professor Snape for help brewing them. Even Tonks joins them for a drink, seemingly wary towards Darcy’s drunken kindness. Ginny shows them some party trick of hers where she folds her tongue all funny, and then the laughter grows. Bill can wiggle his ears, Lupin is double-jointed (something that horrifies Darcy, causing him to kiss her forehead in front of everyone after laughing at her expression), Gemma can solve any multiplication problem in her head within seconds, Tonks changes her face into Argus Filch’s, causing Fred and George to nearly fall of their chairs with laughter. Soon, people are dancing and pretending as if everything is right in the world, as if there is no war and no tension between them. Sirius hasn’t just died, Voldemort is non-existent, it’s only them and the Burrow and the music they dance to.

When night falls and the party dies out and people begin to wash up for bed, Darcy and Lupin stay in the yard alone, swaying drunkenly to the music still floating through the window, accompanied by the clanging of dishes and pots and cutlery being washed. Mrs. Weasley shouts at her children to stop running around the house, the insects chirp from the trees, and Darcy rests her cheek against his shoulder, the tip of her long nose brushing his neck. It’s the most content she’s felt all summer, more content than she’d felt at the Tuttles.

Until she hears the _crack!_

Darcy can’t explain how she just _knows_. Immediately, the both of them straighten up, as if the noise has sobered them up completely, and they turn towards the long drive of the Burrow. They both watch as Albus Dumbledore strides meaningfully towards the Burrow, stroking his beard as if thinking hard. Half hidden by the side of the house, Dumbledore doesn’t see them standing in the back, surrounded by jars of small, blue flames. Lupin goes rigid in Darcy’s arms, his jaw clenched tight and his face slightly paler than it had been a few seconds ago, before Dumbledore had come.

Dumbledore walks right around the side of the house to knock on the back door, not even starting at the sight of them staring, holding onto each other with wide eyes, chests pressed together. Lupin’s fingers are wrapped so tightly around her arms that they dig painfully into her skin, but she doesn’t mind—her own fingers and tangled in the fabric of his shirt, nails digging into his chest. There’s a solemn look to the Headmaster as he approaches them, and Darcy already feels as if he’s about to tell her Lupin’s dead. She clenches her fingers in him tighter, even as Lupin attempts to extricate himself from her.

“I fear I’ve interrupted something,” Dumbledore says, glancing around the yard. The dinner table has yet to be put away with its several empty bottles of wine still scattered atop it, chairs scattered around it where everyone had left the table in their haste to dance, the wireless is still crackling from the kitchen.

“Mrs. Weasley threw me an early birthday party before I go back to Hogwarts, sir,” Darcy answers slowly, hoping that he’ll go away to allow them to finish such a wonderful night in peace. “Before we’re not able to get together again.”

This causes Dumbledore pause, but he does not seem prepared to leave. “Had I known, I would have made it a point to come another day, but I fear this is of the utmost importance,” he tells Darcy, and she gets the feeling that’s going to be all the apology she’s going to get from him. “Remus, I must speak with you privately.”

Lupin looks down at Darcy, his neck very stiff, even his slight movement stiff. Darcy looks back at him, realizing after a few moments that he’s waiting for her permission to go. Finally, she nods and releases the front of his shirt and he uncurls his fingers from around her upper arms, following Dumbledore around the house. Darcy is left standing alone, her arms wrapped around herself, suddenly very cold.

Why did Dumbledore have to come tonight? Why couldn’t he have waited until the morning and spoken to Lupin as Darcy still slept? Why did he have to ruin the best night of the summer to deliver some stupid news about the Order? She’s sure she knows what it’s about, but she doesn’t want to believe it. She doesn’t want to think about Lupin returning to the werewolves, leaving her, possibly never returning to her. To wake up to an empty bed every morning for the rest of her life, knowing that she would never feel his fingers brush her back, or feel his lips against hers . . . Darcy doesn’t think her heart could take anymore loss, especially if it were Lupin.

Darcy looks around, making sure no one is watching her. Most of the lights are off in the windows of the Burrow now, save for a few downstairs ones, so Darcy takes off running, long legs carrying her to a familiar spot that she doesn’t need to really think about. She finds herself at the small pond within seconds, sitting down at the edge and dipping her fingers into the cold, cold water. Propping herself against a tree, knees held tightly to her chest, Darcy attempts to take a few deep, shaky breaths to calm herself down, unable to—in the end—keep herself from crying into her hands.

She doesn’t know how long it is before Lupin finds her, only that she’s shivering with cold, hardly able to see through her puffy eyes, her entire body jumping with each leftover sob she gives. Burying her face in her hands again, completely humiliated that he’s found her in such an embarrassing position, Lupin sits beside her, the grass crunching beneath him and the bark of the tree peeling as he leans against it. And then, something drapes over her lap, a scratchy blanket upon closer inspection, and Darcy feels it’s safe to look him in the face again.

Lupin looks exhausted, as if he’s just watched Sirius die all over again. There’s little color in his cheeks now, and each scar on his face stands out prominently in the light from the waxing moon. He’s brought a jar of blue flame with him, and it sits in the unkempt grass that hides them from view of the Burrow windows. “C’mere,” he breathes, pulling Darcy to his chest and sighing heavily, wearily.

“When do you have to go?” Darcy asks softly against his chest, pulling the blanket up to her chin and nuzzling into his warmth. She fears the answer, but knows that it’s better not to be taken by surprise when she finds him gone one day. Or would it be easier that way?

He grinds his teeth together, staring out at the water, the picture of the almost full moon reflecting on the surface of the water, mocking them. “The afternoon after the full moon wanes.”

Darcy’s heart clenches painfully. “That’s in four days. Can’t it wait until I’m back at Hogwarts, at least?”

With an arm wrapped around her neck to keep her from pulling away, Lupin kisses her without warning. The force of it catches her off guard, but she gives into him, as if she’d ever refuse. When he breaks it after a few seconds, he brushes the tip of his nose to hers. “I have to go, Darcy.”

She shakes her head. “Don’t go,” she begs, unashamed of it. “Don’t go, please. I need you. I can’t be away from you for so long and not even know if you’re alive.”

Lupin smiles weakly. “I have another gift for you, and I hadn’t intended on giving it to you today, but . . .” He reaches into his pocket with his free hand, withdrawing two Knuts and holding them out in his palm. “Maybe now is the perfect time.”

Darcy stammers stupidly. She pushes his hand away. “I don’t need money, but thank you. Keep it.”

“It’s not—” At this, Lupin laughs, taking hold of her hand and helping her fingers to stretch out. He places one of the Knuts in her palm. “You remember those coins Hermione gave you last year for the D.A.? I thought it would be a good idea for us, too.”

“Oh. Sorry.” Darcy blushes, examining the Knut closely.

He grins at her, almost expectantly, excitedly. “It’s not as intricate, of course, seeing that we won’t be planning any secret Defense meetings,” he jokes, holding up his coin next to hers. “But whenever we change the serial number here, it will burn hot in our pockets. That way, you’ll know that I’m thinking of you, or vice versa. We could even make certain number variations mean something . . . like . . . One, two, three, four could mean that I love you, or . . .” His smile falls suddenly upon catching sight of her face. “You hate it.”

“No!” Darcy gasps, pulling the coin out of reach as he makes a grab for it. “Why would you think that?”

“I’m sorry, it’s just . . . I spent a lot of time thinking of how I might communicate with you while I’m gone, and I didn’t have many options, and—”

Darcy kisses him, cutting him off abruptly. “Stop it,” she whispers. “This is the best gift I’ve gotten all night.” She kisses him again, and again, and again. “Please don’t go. I love you, Remus, please . . . please don’t leave me.”

“I have to go,” he says, but it’s a weak protest that’s half drowned by Darcy’s lips, her insistences that he stays with her. “Darcy, I have to go . . .”

“At least let me stay with you, just the once,” she cries, kissing his face over and over again, curling up in his lap to make sure, when he leaves, he does not forgot the feel of her body against him or the taste of her lips. “Let me see you.”

Judging by the long pause in which Lupin considers her, Darcy knows that he’s caught onto her meaning. The chance that he may never come back is higher than she’d like, and she would hate to lose him knowing that she’d never shown her love to the part of him he hates so much, even if it frightens her.

It seems to take everything in him to give her a raspy answer, and he does it seemingly very much against his better judgement. It makes Darcy think he’s already imagining himself never coming home. “All right.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SORRY i was on vacation 😪

“I just want you to know that, if I were one hundred percent certain that I would see you again, I would _never_ agree to this.”

“That doesn’t make me feel any better.”

“I know it doesn’t, love. It doesn’t make me feel very good either, but you know how I feel about this.”

Darcy purses her lips, feeling rather guilty, but not wanting him to know that by a slight difference in her expression. But she knows by the way he isn’t in bed in the mornings sometimes mean her nightmares still hurt him, and Dumbledore was right—she can’t help it that she dreams of him. She dreams of lots of people, Lupin just happens to be the one that tears her throat out with his teeth. His human teeth. Though she’s only seen him transformed twice, and very briefly at that, Darcy doesn’t need to see him again to remember the alternative to human teeth—long, crooked, sharp. His breath had been hot on her face that night in the Shrieking Shack.

But she wants to see him anyway. If there’s the slightest chance Lupin won’t come back, she wants to see him one last time. After all, this is part of him, even if it’s one that he hates, and Darcy loves every part of him—self-loathing and all.

“You’ve taken your potions?”

“As directed.”

Darcy offers him a weak smile. “Then we’ll be fine. And if not, I’ll ward the door like you said and Disapparate.”

Lupin exhales loudly through his nose, pacing the bedroom restlessly. He grasps his hair in clenched fists, looking half-crazed. “Maybe we shouldn’t. Darcy, I love you—I do—but I hate the idea of you being here during a transformation, especially after what I’ve already done to you.”

She decides to keep her mouth shut. He’s already talked himself in a complete circle about four times today.

“What you have to understand is . . .” He stops pacing for a moment to glance at her, then immediately resumes. “I am not proud of this part of me. I would hate for you to see me this way. This is . . . not the romantic gesture to me as it would be to you.”

“I don’t think it a romantic gesture, I think it an honest one.” Darcy stands from her place at the edge of the bed. “You’ve seen me at my most vulnerable, now let—”

“You _have_ seen me at my most vulnerable already,” he insists sharply, using his best Professor Lupin voice he can muster, one that makes Darcy feel of surge of affection for him, “the night I came to you after Sirius died. This is not vulnerable. This is . . . monstrous, horrifying. This is dangerous. Crazy. Foolish.”

Darcy says nothing. She knows very well that it is all of those things.

“How long do we have?” Lupin asks abruptly, his tone changing so quickly it catches Darcy off guard.

She checks her watch. “Two hours until sunset.”

He stops moving, standing directly in front of Darcy with such a serious expression on his face, she can’t help but smile at him. “I don’t want you in here while I transform.”

“I’ve seen you transform before.”

“It’s gruesome.”

“It’s not.” Though, it is a bit gruesome to hear the snapping of bones as they form to fit his bestial body, to see the pain he’s in as he bends over double, helpless to prevent it. “Everything will be fine, and you won’t have to be alone again.”

Lupin is quiet for a long time, considering her. For a moment, Darcy thinks he’ll refuse. “First sign of trouble and you’ll ward the door just like I showed you?”

“I promise.”

“And then you’ll Disapparate back to the Burrow?”

“I promise.”

Again, quiet. “All right.”

* * *

The crying is the worst part.

Darcy’s heart is already racing, her palms sweaty. She continuously wipes them on her legs, but it does no good. This is definitely something she wants to do if there’s a chance he’ll be gone forever, but the night that she and Lupin had their chance encounter in the Shrieking Shack still haunts her.

_Maybe that’s why I dream of him hurting me. Maybe I need this._

She’s abided his request that she stay out of the bedroom as he transforms, but even through the door she hears the cracking and groaning, the same noises she’d heard when she’d crept up the stairs of the Shrieking Shack. The sounds of a man— _her_ Remus—in agonizing pain. It seems to take forever for it to pass, and eventually, after what feels like several long minutes, she can hear him crying, and a wave of nausea comes over her. To hear him cry has always upset her, but this is different. His cries signal the end of his struggle with the wolf—he gives in completely.

Finally, all is quiet, and Darcy is hit with reality that there is a fully grown werewolf in the bedroom and only a door to separate them. The wolf cries for a moment, too, whining, but then all noise stops.

Darcy hesitates, picking her wand up off the sofa with a trembling hand. Her shoulder gives a violent throb, the scars seemingly aware that the werewolf who had inflicted them is close by. It sends pain shooting down her arm to match the pain of her speeding heart that leaves her breathless. She forces herself to stand up, ignoring the pain, and walks slowly to the door. With her hand upon the doorknob, she pauses again.

_If I don’t go in, I’ll hurt his feelings_ , she thinks. _He’ll know that I’m afraid of him. But I’m not. I’m not._

Who are you trying to convince?

_Myself. I have every reason to be afraid._

But you shouldn’t be.

_But I am._

Darcy opens the door carefully, slowly—painfully slowly. There’s a soft rustling noise from inside the room and her heart leaps in her throat as he comes into view. Sitting there, so docile, so afraid, Darcy can’t believe it’s the same wolf that hurt her. He seems to be drawn to the back corner of the bedroom, as if afraid she’s going to run, to reject this form of himself. After a few silent moments, after it’s clear that he isn’t going to attack, Darcy releases the breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding in. She’s sweating, too, a thin sheen covering her forehead, causing her hairline to become damp. She extends a shaking hand, and without any hesitation, Lupin comes—slowly, at that, but he comes.

It seems to take forever to close the gap between them, Darcy’s arm extended and her hand very shaky. All she needs to do is touch him—that’s it. So why is that so hard? He’s just sitting there, looking so goddamn sad, so goddamn pathetic, probably wondering why it’s taking her so long. But the truth is, the night in the Shrieking Shack had terrified her. Darcy truly believed she was going to die in there, bleed out while a werewolf sank his teeth into her soft flesh, while her friends slept soundly, while the world continued to turn, ignoring the screams of a little girl lying upon the wooden floor of some abandoned building. She has to repeat to herself over and over and over again: _He won’t hurt you now, he won’t hurt you now, he won’t hurt you now._

Her shoulder throbs. Her hand jumps to her shoulder instinctively and she sucks in a deep breath at the sudden pain. Lupin whines, backing away against the wall, shaking his massive head. “No, no, no,” Darcy says quickly, moving closer in spite of herself. “Please . . . I’m sorry . . .”

She holds out her hand again, still with a good bit of distance between them. This time, she waits for Lupin to come to her, not wanting to overwhelm him, or to make him feel any worse. Darcy isn’t surprised at the quickness with which he approaches her, especially when she beckons slightly with her middle and ring fingers.

How foolish she’d been to be afraid of this. She knows that his mind is still his, that he will understand everything she says to him, will remember all she does this night. Lupin hadn’t been like this the night he attacked her—had he known, or recognized her someway, Darcy knows he wouldn’t have done it.

She finally threads her fingers through his thick fur, smoothing down the ruffled fur on his muzzle. It’s much softer than she thought it would be, having expected the fur to be coarse and bristly. It’s all gray, just like a regular wolf’s, though his form is massive. She tries to refrain from scratching his chin or behind his ears or touching him as if he’s some lapdog. Sirius may have enjoyed belly rubs, but he’d also enjoyed being a dog, a feeling Lupin does not share. If he were to stand solely on his hand legs, he would tower over her by at least a foot, if not more. He keeps his mouth shut, hiding his long and sharp teeth from her. His long snout prods gently at her scarred shoulder as Darcy wraps her arms around his thick and muscular neck, hugging him tight to her.

“I love you,” she whispers, and for a brief moment, she feels she can hear him saying it back.

Darcy reads to him all night. At first, she’d picked up _Jane Eyre_ off the nightstand, but he’d retrieved an old poetry book for her, bringing it to her clamped between his jaws. It had been the first poetry book he’d ever gifted to her, the Christmas gift he’d given her during seventh year. Snuggled up to her side, nuzzling his face against her shoulder, Darcy recites poetry to the werewolf in her bed—or recites poetry to the werewolf whose bed she’s in. All fear disappears as he curls up beside her, head resting on her shoulder first, face buried in her neck, and then he paws up her shirt to lay on her bare stomach, always making sure to look up at her as if expecting to be kicked away like some beaten pup, looking at her with eyes so unlike his own, but that reflect some hint of the man behind them.

She can’t help but to stroke his face, smoothing down the fur over and over with her thumb, watching his eyes flutter closed. His breath comes in hot, heavy pants, exhaling onto her skin, making goosebumps rise all over her stomach. Closing the poetry book close to midnight, Darcy takes a moment to appreciate the quiet, save for the sounds coming from the forest through the open window. She can’t believe that hours ago, she’d been sweating herself into a near panic attack, sick to her stomach with fear, but now—with Lupin at her side, taking up nearly the entire bed while his tail flops lazily against her legs in a content sort of way, Darcy feels warm, safe, like nothing will ever be able to hurt her here with him protecting her.

The image must truly be something—Darcy tangled up in bed with an adult werewolf, snuggling with each other as if he’s no more than a family pet. The thought of Mrs. Weasley’s face—if she were here to witness this scene—makes the corners of Darcy’s mouth twitch in spite of everything and she holds Lupin tighter, his tail giving a few more happy waves until stopping again.

She falls asleep shortly afterwards, with the light of the full moon spilling through the window, a werewolf pressed against her front with her arm thrown over him, her face buried in his warm muzzle, listening to his steady breathing.

Whatever she dreams of that night, Lupin is not a part of them.

In the morning, Darcy’s arms are still around the wolf when she feels the bones shifting beneath his fur. The sudden movement wakes her almost instantly, and she watches as the fur retracts into his skin, the most horrifying thing she’s ever seen. It’s almost like watching someone transform via Polyjuice Potion, but worse—his skin is not bubbling, but being stretched to its full capacity as his bones snap and shrink and fit back to their original position, all while Lupin groans and pants and cries out with each _crack!_ made by his own body.

And within just a few short minutes, the transformation ends. He’s still crying softly, lying limp and naked on the bed. Darcy’s heart aches painfully for him, and when she presses a palm to his back and kisses his shoulder blade, it’s all she can do to keep herself from suffocating him with love.

“Remus?” she breathes, combing the back of his damp hair with her fingers. “Remus, love, are you all right?”

“I’m sorry,” Lupin rasps through his fingers, his face hidden behind his palms. “I’m so sorry.”

Darcy pauses, rubbing his scarred back with the gentlest touch, the tips of her soft fingers gliding over each scar and in between. “What could you possibly have to be sorry for?”

He inhales deeply, his back pressing harder against her chest. Once his breathing evens out and the crying stops, he rolls over to face her, shocking her. Despite the use of both potions for the full moon, he still looks ill. All color has been drained from his cheeks and there are shadows under his bloodshot and puffy eyes, leaving him looking malnourished and closer to death than Darcy would ever want to see him. She wipes the sweat off his forehead with her palm, far beyond the point of caring about what is disgusting and what is not. Lupin closes his eyes, groaning quietly as Darcy continues to wipe tears from his cheeks and brushing the hair out of his face.

“Where does it hurt?” she whispers.

His lips barely move when he answers. “Everywhere. _God_ . . . everywhere . . .”

“You’re burning up. Let me get you a cool cloth.”

“It’ll pass,” Lupin rasps, sighing heavily. But he doesn’t protest as Darcy runs to the bathroom, grabbing the nearest washcloth and saturating it with cold water from the faucet. When she returns to him with it, placing it on his forehead, he offers her a toothy and sweet smile. “It always does, after my body adjusts to being human again.”

Darcy blushes, sitting at his side on the bed. “I only want to help.”

“Where have you been all my life, love?” he asks her, and they both laugh weakly. “I’ll be running a marathon around Britain by the afternoon.”

“You’re not going anywhere until I say so,” Darcy insists, but it’s only half-heartedly. To imagine Lupin going anywhere in such a condition makes her anxious, the thought of him surrounded by other—potentially dangerous—werewolves sets her teeth on edge. “You can hardly move.”

“Only for a little while. Don’t forget, the first time I made love to you was the night after a full moon, and I only had one potion then.”

She blushes harder, making him smile. “As if I’d ever forget.” Darcy leans in to kiss him gently on the lips.

“Was it everything you hoped it would be?”

Darcy grasps his meaning by the way his smile falls. “We don’t have to talk about it.” She takes the cloth off his forehead, crawling over him to collapse in bed beside him again. “I don’t want you to go.”

Lupin takes her hand in both of his, kissing her fingers. “Tomorrow you’ll be at Hogwarts again, and you’ll be so distracted with classes that you won’t even remember I’m gone.”

Her eyes fill with tears. As if she could ever forget where he’s gone. “Will you think of me?” she breathes, closing her eyes when his lips capture hers in a tender kiss.

“Every day,” he promises softly, groaning as he moves closer. “Every night. Every minute. Every second.” Each promise is punctuated with another kiss, each one deeper than the one before. “Always you.”

The past few days they’ve spent together since Dumbledore’s surprise visit to the Burrow have been filled with promises (empty ones, Darcy can’t help to think)—promises made while he was inside of her, promises made while at each other’s mercy, promises made while still shuddering from  
the aftermath of their lovemaking. She can’t get enough of them, wants to believe that Lupin will come back with no change in his feelings for her at all (except maybe for a sudden surge of affection for her, which would be nice).

“Take your clothes off,” he tells her, lips brushing against her jaw. It isn’t quite a polite request, nor is it a command. “I’m far too sore to do it myself, I think.”

“If you’re too sore to take my clothes off, what makes you think you’re well enough to fuck me?”

“I’m always well enough for that,” he teases, tugging impatiently at the waistband of her sleeping shorts. “Especially when I’ll be leaving you so soon.”

As much as Darcy wants to, something about witnessing his transformation makes her wary. Only a little while ago his bones had seemingly broken and reformed to more human bones, and he’d been crying beside her. She pushes his hand away gently. “Please, Remus,” she sighs. “You should get some rest before you leave.”

“I’ll sleep when I’m dead,” he replies firmly, slipping his hand down the front of her shorts and grinning upon finding her already wet for him. “I’m not going to waste the last few hours I have with you, and I intend to have you at least twice before then.”

“No,” Darcy laughs, though she does nothing to remove the hand down her shorts. “You should be resting so you’ll have your strength when you go.”

“What do you want, Darcy?” Lupin asks, withdrawing his hand himself and raising his eyebrows. “Do you want to fall asleep with me for a little bit? If that’s what you want, then we can do that.” A tired, roguish grin graces his face, and he touches her lips with the fingers that still taste like herself. “Or we can use our time a bit more wisely. It’s completely up to you.”

Defeated, Darcy purses her lips. “You already know what I want.”

“I know what your body wants,” he murmurs, kissing her cheek. “Is that what _you_ want?”

Darcy rolls onto her side to face him. Lupin smiles so sweetly at her, such a contrast to the mischievous smile he’d worn seconds ago, it almost gives her whiplash. “Promise me one more thing,” she pleads, hoping he’ll agree to it.

“I’ll promise you near anything. What am I promising this time?”

“After this year at Hogwarts, when you come back for the last time during the summer,” she begins, and Lupin narrows his eyes suspiciously, tucking her hair behind her ears, still looking rather pale, but there’s a slight pink tint to his cheeks now. “I want you to promise me no more. Promise me we’ll be a family. Promise me you’ll . . .” (empty promises, empty promises, empty promises) “Promise me that you’ll give me children.”

Lupin blinks in surprise, seemingly caught off guard. She’s privately very pleased by the effect her words have on him, putting color back into his cheeks, his arousal pressing hard and firm against her stomach.

“Does the idea of that turn you on that much?” Darcy chuckles, and Lupin shakes his head. “It turns you on to think of me all fat and round and bloated?”

“Don’t tease me, kitten,” Lupin answers breathlessly and flushed, his warm hand coming to rest upon her stomach, fingers splayed out as if feeling for a child within. If Darcy weren’t already on the verge of crying, this would set her over the edge. “Fine. As many children as you want. I promise.”

She thinks the words come far too easily to him for him to actually mean them, but Darcy isn’t in the mood to argue. She’s grateful when he flips her onto her stomach, her face buried in the pillow, pulling her hips up just inches from the mattress, giving her some privacy in order to cry unseen. Maybe it doesn’t even matter if he’s lying, she thinks. After all, it’s not as if it could ever happen.

But even so, each time Lupin pushes deep inside of her, hitting her cervix in a pleasurably painful way and causing strangled moans to escape the both of them, Darcy can’t help but pray: _Please put a baby in me. Just one and I’ll never ask for anything ever again. Please_ . . .

* * *

It’s raining cats and dogs when it comes time for him to leave, mirroring the sadness in her heart.

Darcy kisses him several times, crying all the while, clinging to him even as he attempts to pull away, silently coercing him with a few well-placed kisses to fuck her against the siding of the cottage once more, the heavy rain muffling any noise they make. She sneaks a few Galleons into his pockets, makes sure he’s packed photographs of her lest he forget what she looks like, makes him promise about being a family again. And then, slightly exasperated, Lupin wraps his arms around her tight, holding her for a few minutes, face buried in her hair.

“This place is yours while I’m gone,” he whispers in her ear, and Darcy closes her eyes, nuzzling into his neck. “Check in every so often, would you? Make sure it doesn’t collect too much dust?”

She nods. The rain reminds her of the nights following Sirius’ death, the _tap-tap-tap_ of the rain on the windowpane as Lupin slept beside her.

“Good girl. I’ve got to go now, all right?”

Darcy breaks apart from him reluctantly and Lupin takes a step back, his jaw set, some color back in his face. The rain continues to pound on the roof and the ground, silencing the rest of the world around them. It is painful and heartbreaking and fearful all at once, and Darcy wonders why his leaving didn’t affect her to this extent last year. Maybe it will be better once she’s distracted with classes. Or maybe it will be painful to lay awake at night, craving his presence beside her in a lonely bed.

Maybe it affects her so much because she’s just lost Sirius, and the weight of the war and its casualties hangs heavy between them. Darcy wishes they would have spent more time talking about Sirius, lightening her already heavy heart. She watches as Lupin turns away to walk towards the boundaries of Dumbledore’s and the Order’s protective enchantments that keep them safe within the cottage, a bag slung over his broad shoulders, not caring about the rain that soaks him head to heel. He gives his head a shake to get the hair out of his face.

“Wait!” Darcy calls, her heart leaping. She sprints to him, holding her arms over her head in an effort to keep herself dry. The rain has her drenched within seconds, dark red hair sticking to her face, her clothes clinging to her skin. Lupin stops and turns to face her, looking expectantly into her eyes, waiting for a confession that Darcy hasn’t prepared. She only wants a few more moments with him. The hard rain forces Darcy to yell to be heard. “I feel there’s so much we should have talked about.”

Lupin smiles fondly, gripping her upper arm firmly and hunching over to put his face just inches from her own. “There will be plenty of time for talking when I come back,” he replies with a half-shout. “You could write everything on your typewriter so you don’t forget the slightest detail.”

Darcy nods, forcing herself to smile. “I love you,” she says, touching his cheek and kissing him again. “You better come back. I’ll have so much to tell you.”

“I look forward to it,” he grins. It’s a smile reminiscent of one he might have flashed her across a classroom during his teaching days. She loves him for it. “I love you.”

He kisses her three more times—the first one is hard and deep, the second is quick and sweet, the third hurried. As soon as his fingers release their grip on her arm, a cold swoops over her like the cold of dementors. The rain soaks her to the bone, makes her shiver as she stares after this man she loves so much, this man that is leaving her standing in the yard, alone, with her arms wrapped around herself, tears mingling with the raindrops that fall down her face.

Within seconds, he’s gone.

It’s still raining when Darcy arrives back at the Burrow, crying and walking down the muddy drive towards the house, holding herself tightly, her mind racing with every single bad thought it can muster for her. It’s only when she reaches within a few yards of the house does someone realize she’s there, though she doesn’t blame them. Mr. Weasley is the one to throw the back door open, looking harassed and still in his Ministry robes.

“Oh, Darcy . . .” Mr. Weasley grasps her arms, holding her out to inspect her critically, taking in her appearance from the dark hair that’s plastered to her skin to her chattering teeth to the muddy boots and jeans she’s wearing. “All right, all right . . . come in now, darling.”

Mrs. Weasley rushes into the kitchen upon hearing the door shut. Shivering and dripping all over the kitchen floor, she quickly dries Darcy with a spell, relieving the cold ache in her bones. “What’s happened?” Mrs. Weasley asks, touching Darcy’s face as if hoping to find an answer written upon her cheeks.

“Remus, he’s—he’s—”

“Oh, Merlin! Arthur, _Arthur_ , last night was the full moon—” Mrs. Weasley gasps, her eyes going wide, her hands clapping over her mouth. She takes a step back, but Mr. Weasley stays put, looking wary. “Check her. Check her, Arthur—did he bite you, Darcy? Where? Did he hurt you?”

“What?” Darcy stammers, unable to think up a suitable answer to this question, for she doesn’t think that no would be enough. A flush creeps up the back of her neck, burning her cheeks with humiliation and indignation. “He hasn’t—he hasn’t _bitten_ me! He’s _gone_! He’s left! And I don’t know that I’ll—”

Something burns hot in her back pocket and Darcy reaches quickly for it, having forgotten that it was there. She pulls out the fake Knut that Lupin had given her, feeling its warmth in the palm of her hand as Mr. and Mrs. Weasley look at it with furrowed brows and bewildered expressions.

“A Knut?” Mrs. Weasley asks, frowning.

“Feel it,” Darcy insists, wanting to share this with everyone, wanting everyone to know that he’s thinking of her, wherever he is. Both Mr. and Mrs. Weasley touch the tips of their index fingers to the coin, recoiling at the warmth. “It’s Remus. He’s thinking of me.”

“Ingenious,” Mr. Weasley breathes, smiling at his wife, whose lips are pursed very tight in an Aunt Petunia-like fashion. “And he has the other coin?”

Darcy nods, her heart swelling with pride. She adjusts the serial number on the Knut in order to alert Lupin that she’s received his thoughtful ‘message’ and shortly after, the coin grows cooler again.

It’s strange, she thinks, that a simple coin can bring her so much comfort. She tucks it back into her pocket, leaving Mr. and Mrs. Weasley standing in the kitchen, confused and looking curiously from one to the other as Darcy makes her way up the stairs, hoping to feel it burn again soon.

* * *

Compared to last summer’s scramble the morning of September 1st at Grimmauld Place, everything runs relatively smoothly. Harry even has time to teach Darcy how to work her typewriter (relaying what he can remember that Emily had said) before she packs it away, planning to make good use of it at Hogwarts. Mr. Weasley had been able to secure them Ministry cars to take them to the Ministry (it had been Dumbledore’s insistence that Darcy take the Hogwarts Express to school instead of Apparating alone or taking the Knight Bus), and Max had been the perfect angel all the way to the platform, unlike Hedwig, Pigwidgeon, and Crookshanks, who had all protested loudly at being stuffed in their cages after an entire summer of being able to roam and fly wherever they pleased.

Darcy can’t say she’s very thrilled about being escorted onto the train by a dull-faced Auror, but she knows that she’ll have some sort of limited freedom on the train, especially if she can find a compartment to herself, so she bids good-bye to Mr. and Mrs. Weasley quickly, thanking them several times for having herself and Harry at the Burrow for the majority of the summer, and she receives many kisses and hugs from the both of them.

She boards the train before any of the other kids do, finding a compartment near the back of the train that’s empty. Darcy heaves her trunk in the luggage rack and lets Max out of his cage. He hops happily around on the seats for a few minutes and Darcy watches him as the stragglers begin to board once the train whistle sounds.

The anxiety begins to set in, her nerves jangling. With all the excitement over the summer, Darcy’s half-forgotten that she isn’t going back to work under Professor Snape. The idea of spending an entire school year at Slughorn’s side is suddenly not very appealing (had it ever been?), and she becomes nervous about Snape’s possible treatment of her. Thinking of how much their relationship (friendship, you idiot, not a relationship) has grown over the years makes Darcy’s heart flutter.

He had once been cruel to her—maybe not to the extent that he is to Harry—but all the same, Snape had frightened her as a girl. True, he’d frightened most everyone, but Darcy had always felt very small under his gaze. Even now, Snape knows how to look at her and make her feel no more than a little girl. She doesn’t want to go back to that, to sharp tones and venomous words. She doesn’t want to go back to dancing around each other’s feelings, unsure of how to act or what to say or if it’s all right to smile at him.

Last year, Snape had been a strong source of strength and comfort for her. Curling her fingers around his arm upon walking through the corridors, sitting in silence while working on lesson plans, seeing him arrive at Grimmauld Place for no other reason than to see her. Now, Darcy feels that she will no longer be able to do these things, will not longer be able to draw comfort from him. Not that she should. She can’t imagine what Lupin might think if he knew Darcy was sitting alone, sulking over what she’s lost with Snape.

Whatever will happen with Snape, Darcy will find out within a few hours. Not wanting to dwell on it only to make her feel worse, she begins to read as the Hogwarts Express gains speed, bringing them to Hogwarts at a steady pace.

She only gets a few chapters into her book when someone knocks upon the compartment door. Expecting it to be Harry, Hermione, or even Ron, Darcy looks up with a smile, and it falters only slightly when she sees Professor Slughorn waving from behind the glass.

“Oh, shit . . .” Darcy breathes to herself, marking the page in her book and setting it aside, grabbing hold of Max and opening the compartment door.

“Miss Potter! What a funny coincidence seeing you here!” he exclaims, reaching out for one of her hands. Struggling with Max, who doesn’t seem to take to Slughorn at all, Darcy shakes his hand. “I didn’t know you’d be riding the train. I suppose it’s a very sentimental way to arrive, isn’t it?”

“I suppose so, sir,” she agrees politely, thinking of the first time she’d met Lupin before asking Slughorn to close the compartment door so she can release Max and not have to worry about him pecking someone’s fingers while her back is turned to him. “Max, stop it! Excuse me, Professor Slughorn—ouch! Please, sit—Max! Excuse me—let me just put him into his cage.”

Darcy wrestles with Max for a moment, his wings whipping her in the face, talons piercing her shirt and skin. She feels guilty about stuffing him back in his cage, honestly, but that guilt fades quickly upon realizing the damage he’s done to her right arm, her sleeve in near tatters and her arm bleeding. Slughorn looks slightly horrified, but Darcy fixes it quickly with magic (though the bleeding only stops, and she isn’t sure how to make the wounds seal up like Gemma can) and resumes her seat as Max begins to quiet.

Slughorn’s tongue darts out to wet his lips, eyeing Max’s case with a hint of suspicion. “Yes, well . . . I, ehm . . . Albus had Severus write to me regarding the state of your apprenticeship at the end of last term. You’ve been teaching the first years?”

“Yes, sir,” Darcy answers, crossing her ankles, sitting up straighter. “I will still be able to, won’t I?”

“Do you have lesson plans? Any idea as to how you’ll begin?” Slughorn asks, seeming a big more at ease as he strokes the bushy mustache hiding his upper lip.

“I’ve kept all of my lesson plans that I’ve used since I’ve been working with Professor Snape, and unless you’ve changed the standard mandatory book for the first years, then I know the material just fine, sir.” Darcy hopes that her words come across as confident and firm and assertive.

Slughorn chuckles, pulling a pipe from the pocket of his robes and holding it to his lips, considering her. “Severus did give you a . . . glowing review. He mentioned that you were a natural at Potions even in your first year.”

Darcy blushes furiously. “That’s very kind of him. I suppose Potions has always come rather . . . naturally to me. Though I suppose Professor Snape deserves some credit.”

She watches as Slughorn’s lips curl around the stem of his pipe. He makes no move to light the tobacco in it, instead puffing as if it brings him comfort. Darcy looks out the window, ignoring the indignant hoot Max gives her. “I read the article that you had published in _The Quibbler_ ,” he says suddenly, lowering his pipe. “It was a very interesting take on werewolf rights.”

Darcy meets his eyes again. Slughorn doesn’t look away like she expected him to. “It’s something very important to me. I wish I could have done more, but as I was in hiding from the Ministry of Magic, you can see why I couldn’t.”

This mention of the Ministry’s strife with her seems to make him uncomfortable. “You’re rather ambitious, aren’t you?”

Darcy laughs bitterly. “I like to think that I am, sir, but no, I’m not really. If I had any ambition, do you think I’d still be here at Hogwarts?” It’s a painful truth, perhaps, but it is the truth. For some reason, it hurts Darcy more than she can say. “I am many other things, but I am certainly not ambitious.”

Slughorn’s eyes suddenly brighten. He pockets his pipe, leaning forward with flushed cheeks. “You know, Barnabas Cuffe and I go way back,” he tells her. “If you were interested, I could put in a good word for you.”

She is interested, but is hesitant to accept Slughorn’s offer. If she really wanted a good word put in for her, she could always ask Emily, but Darcy isn’t quite sure what Emily’s standing is with Cuffe at the moment, anyway. “Perhaps another time,” Darcy says, smiling slightly. “I have enough on my plate at the moment, but thank you.”

“Right . . . of course . . .” Slughorn’s silver mustache twitches and he fidgets in his seat. “I thought, with us going to spend the year together, that we might have a chance to get to know one another. I fear we may have . . . gotten off on the wrong foot. Though, I feel I know you already, having taught both your mother and father!”

Darcy would rather Slughorn not speak of her mother and father, but her curiosity gets the better of her. “Do you remember much of them, sir?”

He smiles warmly for the first time since the night Dumbledore had introduced them. “I remember everything. Like I said, your mother was one of my absolute favorites! A brilliant witch . . . talented and clever, but unfailingly kind. Traits, I believe, that you share with Lily, according to Severus.”

She hesitates. What exactly did Snape say about her to Slughorn? Unfailingly kind is a very sweet thing to say, but surely Snape knows that isn’t her. Darcy has been cruel to him, has spoken out of turn about things that have hurt him. She has hurt people and tortured people, so why is it that everyone thinks she’s _kind_? It’s a poor way to describe her, and sometimes Darcy isn’t sure if it’s true or not.

“And my father?” she asks quickly. “James?”

Slughorn takes his pipe out of his pocket again, fingering it nervously with thick fingers. “Always with those friends of his. James, unfortunately, didn’t share the natural talent for Potions that your mother did . . . not that he was terrible! I think he was more concerned with causing mayhem than watching a cauldron bubble for a half hour.” His eyes rove over her face for a moment, examining her critically, eyes narrowing. Darcy half-expects him to backtrack on his previous statement, to declare that—up close—she does look like James. But Slughorn doesn’t say anything of the sort. “Listen, Miss Potter—Darcy—may I call you Darcy?”

Darcy nods distractedly as he stands.

“ _Darcy_ , I look forward to speaking more of yourself, but I was just fancying a bit of a walk through the compartments. Would you like to join me for lunch? Compartment C.”

“Sure.”

Though by lunch, she’s deeply regretting this decision for several reasons—the first being that it sounds awful being apart of something called the “Slug Club”, Slughorn’s ugly made up name for the group of well-connected or talented students (including herself, of course). There’s Ginny, on Darcy’s right (which both of them had regretted after Slughorn delighted at the sight of their near matching hair, suggesting they could be sisters several times), who had been caught performing a Bat-Bogey Hex in the train corridor on Zacharias Smith; Harry is on her left, exchanging sideways looks with his sister every so often, reminiscent of the wary looks he’d given her the night at that Muggle home Slughorn had been hiding in; on Harry’s other side is Neville Longbottom, who keeps looking hopefully at Darcy as if expecting her to tell him he can leave. Other students are here, as well, ones that Darcy only knows because of classes—a Slytherin sixth-year boy named Blaise Zabini, a very reserved boy with haughty cheekbones to match Darcy’s and dark skin that catches the light well, making him look ethereal; Cormac McLaggen is there, as well, a seventh-year Gryffindor with very broad shoulders and a broad chest, smiling at Darcy across the table with his eyebrows raised; and the last is a boy called Marcus Belby, a seventh-year Ravenclaw, with a lanky body and wide eyes and a pale face who once had spoken up (albeit half-heartedly) during class after hearing a bunch of Slytherins whispering about Darcy and Lupin.

Slughorn makes the introductions, and Darcy sits straight, elbowing Harry when he begins to slouch in his chair. “Easy, Aunt Petunia,” Harry hisses, making Darcy blush and causing her eyes to well with tears before Harry apologizes quietly by squeezing her hand beneath the table and giving her an apologetic look.

Darcy begins to open the lunch that Mrs. Weasley had packed for her—a roast beef sandwich, an unnecessary amount of cherries, raspberries, and blackberries that she allows Harry, Ginny, and Neville to pick from at their leisure. Though she keeps her eyes down (mostly to avoid Cormac and Slughorn’s intense glares), she’s surprised when Slughorn begins to explain each student’s connections. With a meaningful look at Darcy, Slughorn begins by explaining that Marcus’ Uncle Damocles created the Wolfsbane potion.

“Did he really?” Darcy asks, a crease between her knitted eyebrows. “Your uncle is Damocles Belby?”

Marcus blinks in surprise at her, blushing and clearing his throat and looking rather awkward, as if he’d rather be anywhere but here. “Yes, ma’am. But he and dad aren’t on speaking terms. Ma’am.”

Darcy replies, “You can call me Darcy”, to which Marcus answers, “Yes, Darcy”, but she’s far off right now. She’s too busy wondering how quickly Max could make it to Gemma if she sent him with a letter now. Though, of course, she couldn’t send the letter straight to Gemma. She’d have to send it to Emily, or to the Burrow, or to someone who could, for a certainty, give a letter to Gemma. If Darcy could get Gemma in contact with the person who invented Wolfsbane . . . if she could get in contact with Marcus’ uncle . . . if _Lupin_ could get in contact with him . . .

“Why doesn’t your father speak to your uncle?” Darcy asks, not unkindly, but more curiously than anything.

Marcus’ face turns bright red this time. “Dad thinks the Wolfsbane potion was a waste of time, money, and energy.” His eyes go wider, as if he’s suddenly remembered something. Darcy is sure she knows what it is he’s remembering. “I don’t agree. I don’t think it was a waste of any of those things. I think it’s good, you know, to . . . to help those people.”

Blaise scoffs, playing it off as his pumpkin juice going down all wrong.

Darcy can’t help but to smile at this bumbling fool. “That’s very sweet of you, Marcus.”

Marcus seems to deflate, as if he’d been expecting Darcy to erupt on him. Slughorn, however, seems far less interested in Marcus, especially after hearing that he’s no longer in contact with his uncle. Instead of dwelling or asking any follow up questions, Slughorn turns instead to Cormac, and Darcy suddenly dreads the end. Slowly, Slughorn will work his way around the table, and he will eventually come to her. And what will he say about her? Will he humiliate her in front of everyone by bringing up something private? The last thing she wants is to be made a fool of, especially in front of her little brother.

Slughorn and Cormac chat briefly about hunting nogtails with Rufus Scrimgeour and another man that Darcy’s never heard of. When Cormac looks expectantly at her, as if hoping she’ll ask him questions like she had with Marcus, Darcy makes it a point to keep her eyes fixed on her lunch for the remainder of his time.

After Cormac, Slughorn turns to Blaise. Darcy hates to admit that she’s rather interested in the story that is weaved. Blaise’s mother, a beautiful witch (and unimaginably rich) who had been married seven times (each of her husbands dying mysteriously and leaving her richer than before). Darcy gives an impressed little nod before feeling horrified as Neville becomes the main attraction, Ginny having been skipped over completely. Slughorn recalls Frank and Alice Longbottom just as he remembers James and Lily, and Neville skirts very carefully around their current whereabouts or condition. His caution extends to Slughorn, who regards Neville with a wary eye, as if unsure what to make of him.

Darcy decides, upon seeing Neville’s pink cheeks, that it’s time to intervene. “Professor Slughorn, Neville is brilliant in Herbology,” she says, and Neville covers his face, turning pinker. Feeling slightly guilty for saying anything at all, Darcy sighs.

It seems Slughorn isn’t very interested in Neville’s talent for Herbology, instead looking hungrily at Harry. Darcy feels the need to almost stand up and protect him from Slughorn’s greedy gaze. “Harry Potter . . .” he sighs contently, picking at a piece of cold pheasant. “They’re calling you the Chosen One now.”

Darcy and Harry exchange glances.

“There have been rumors for years, of course . . .” He stuffs a piece of meat into his mouth and chews slowly, taking this time to look Harry over. “Ever since Lily and James . . . well . . . the rumors swirling in the _Prophet_ over the summer . . .”

“You shouldn’t believe everything written in the _Prophet_ , sir,” Darcy interrupts coldly.

Slughorn doesn’t seem to pick up Darcy’s tone. He reaches across Ginny to pat Darcy’s hand in what he must think is a fatherly way. She retracts her hand quickly. “Of course not, my dear. The _Prophet_ has been known to print . . . inaccuracies. However, there were many witnesses that have said you and your brother were at the heart of the disturbance at the Ministry back in June.”

Darcy looks to Harry, who only nods at Slughorn.

Slughorn looks delighted. “You were there, then? The stories that they’ve been printing . . . this fabled prophecy, for instance . . .”

“We never heard a prophecy,” Neville says suddenly, turning pink again.

Ginny nods her approval, expression defiant. “That’s right. Neville and I were there, too, and we never heard a prophecy.”

“Oh?” Slughorn looks to Neville with far more interest than he’d expressed before, and then looks at Ginny with a smile that stretches from ear to ear, his mustache twitching again. “Well . . . the _Prophet_ often exaggerates . . .”

Darcy sits through hours of this, hardly talking, trying to think of some good excuse to leave, but there is none. She tries to imagine herself seated at the staff table in the Great Hall, helping herself to her favorite foods, talking excitedly to Professor Snape about her summer—if he even wants to talk to her. Maybe when she finally reaches her office, she’ll set up her typewriter and try and recount the entire afternoon in order to give Lupin all the details when he returns from wherever he is. Or maybe she’ll track Marcus Belby down before the end of the feast and see if he can’t put her in contact with his Uncle Damocles. Darcy isn’t quite sure what she would do with that information . . . maybe she’d ask for an interview. If he’d given one before, it was when she was too young to remember. Or she could work with him and put him in touch with Gemma to see if the both of them could potentially embark on attempting to create a cure for lycanthropy.

The luncheon only ends after the lanterns flicker to life in the carriages and compartments, giving light inside as the sky darkens quickly the further north the train takes them. Wanting to be very far away from Slughorn, Darcy promises Harry they’ll talk later, possibly after the feast, and she returns to her compartment, slamming the door shut and closing the blinds.

How could Dumbledore have been so insensitive by making her work beneath that sorry excuse for a man? Didn’t Dumbledore realize part of the reason she wanted to come back again was because she thought she’d be working for Professor Snape? Horace Slughorn is nothing like Snape—both Slytherins, both opposites for the most part. Slughorn cares nothing for Darcy personally, only the publicized parts of her, the charming and outward parts of her. He doesn’t care that her heart still has a gaping hole in it left from Sirius’ death, doesn’t care how she feels or what she thinks. How could Dumbledore just continue to expect her blind trust when he continues to do things like this? She deserves answers, doesn’t she? She deserves to learn with the Order, not be told afterwards like a little kid?

Darcy makes certain she’s one of the first ones off the Hogwarts Express when they finally arrive at Hogsmeade Station. The air is cold tonight, her breath steaming as she lugs her trunk onto the platform for someone—presumably house-elves—to bring her luggage up to her office. She releases Max from his cage and he flies off instantly in the direction of the castle, without so much a backwards glance or a single noise except for the ruffle of his feathers. Leaving the empty cage with her trunk, Darcy wraps her arms around herself, forgetting too late that she still has open wounds on her arm from Max’s talons. Swearing loudly and startling a few younger students, something catches Darcy’s eye.

“Hey!” she calls breathlessly, wondering if it’s insensitive to be doing this. “Hey, Tonks!”

A thin girl with mousy-brown hair turns. Darcy would have been happy with a small, forced smile, but Tonks gives her nothing of the sort. “Wotcher, Darcy.”

Darcy looks about the station. “Is Emily here, too?”

“No, not tonight.”

“Okay.” There’s an awkward silence, and she feels maybe it’s time to go. “Well . . . see you around, then.” Darcy turns quickly and makes for a thestral-drawn carriage, jumping when someone calls her name.

She turns towards a carriage slightly ahead of the others, still being filled by students. Darcy meanders over to it, shivering, her arm throbbing and probably bleeding again. Poking her head inside, Darcy’s heart stops. Professor Snape is there, beckoning her into the carriage, and she obeys without question, sitting across from him just as she had done at the beginning of last year, feeling such relief at his mere company.

As the thestrals makes its first few steps up the road, far before the first student carriage is ready to move, Darcy clears her throat. “Are you able to close small wounds?”

Snape frowns, nodding.

“Max and I had a kind of . . . power struggle. Could you fix it?”

He nods again.

Darcy turns, pulling her arm out of her sleeve and showing it to Snape, blushing. Most of her torso is revealed to him and her right breast, thankfully covered by her bra. The chill breeze covers her flesh with goosebumps. Snape touches her arm gently, paying no attention to the rest of her body that is showing, brushing his thumb over the open wounds and picking out the fuzz that sticks to them from her shirt. She whines, but eventually Snape does close the wounds with a softly murmured incantation, the tip of his wand pointed directly at them, and within seconds, the dull pain is gone.

“Better?” he asks her, releasing her arm, looking away as Darcy adjusts her clothing.

“Yes,” she says.

“How are you feeling?”

“Still sad.” She looks him over for a moment, humiliated. “Professor Snape, I—”

His black eyes snap to hers, but there is a warmth in them that is not typically visible. While there is some of his former self in his words and tone, Darcy knows that he isn’t really mad at her when he speaks. “If you’re going to apologize for what happened at the end of last year, then don’t bother.”

Darcy falls silent, raising an eyebrow. “Did you read my mind?”

Snape clenches his jaw, shifting awkwardly in his seat. “I didn’t need to.” He looks away from her again, seeming only a boy. “You weren’t well, and I would not fault you for making a mistake such as . . . that.”

“I wasn’t . . . I don’t . . .” Darcy tugs at the collar of her sweater, feeling flushed. “Is that what you think?”

“Don’t play coy, Darcy, in order to spare my feelings. Your false courtesy can be very tiring sometimes, do you know that?” Snape hisses, and Darcy’s heart breaks all over again. Surely he doesn’t mean that? Surely it’s all an act? “Perhaps Lupin appreciates your polite little lies to make him feel better, but I’ve no need for it. If you aren’t going to be honest with me, then don’t speak at all.”

His words steal her breath away. Had it been their actions at the end of the previous year that made him feel this way? “You’re being very rude, Professor Snape.” Darcy leans forward, knowing that they’re alone, but still feeling as if someone is listening in. “You want me to be honest, then I’ll be honest. I was really looking forward to coming back here and working with you again. Imagine my surprise to find out that I wouldn’t be working with you and that I would have to endure a lack of kindness from you.”

Snape scrunches his nose, frustrated. He leans forward too, lowering his voice to a heated whisper that’s more like a strangled hiss. “I tried everything I could to convince the Headmaster to keep you at my side,” he says quickly and defensively. “But he refused. If you have grievances—”

“I _do_ have grievances!” Darcy snaps. Snape’s dark eyebrows rise nearly to his greasy hairline. “I don’t want to be with Professor Slughorn. I hate him.”

The carriage suddenly lurches as it comes to a stop, and someone knocks on the door. Snape growls, throwing it open to reveal Argus Filch, a lantern held up to illuminate his ugly face, yellowed teeth bared. “Please step out of the carriage and empty your pockets,” he orders in his gravelly voice. Darcy sees the long, probe like object in his hands and throws herself back into the seat beside Snape.

“You are not touching me with that thing, you vile—”

“Enough of this,” Snape barks at Filch. “We will not be subjected to your petty and degrading searches.”

“Headmaster’s orders, Professor,” Filch says, his smile widening.

“I don’t think he meant _me_ ,” Snape snarls, slamming the carriage door shut and ordering the thestral to continue. They can both hear Filch insulting them until another carriage comes along. In a much kinder tone, he asks, “What were you saying?”

“I said that I _hate_ Slughorn.”

“You sound like a child,” Snape retorts, but looking pleased with himself all the same. “If you are unable to work with someone that you don’t particularly care for—”

“I _have_ worked with someone I don’t particularly care for.” Darcy musters up her best angry face, leaning back in her seat as the carriage rattles up the road to Hogwarts, folding her arms over her chest. “I worked with _you_. Not like you made it easy for me.”

Snape isn’t amused. He straightens up, as well, tracing his teeth with his tongue. “Let’s not pretend you were perfect yourself.” Softening slightly, he sighs. “I’m sorry, Darcy. I know you’re not coming back to what you expected or wanted—”

“Can’t you do something?” Darcy begs, almost ready to cry. “Please, Professor Snape. Please don’t make me work with Slughorn. I want to work with you. Surely Professor Dumbledore will listen to you?”

“I’ve just told you, I’ve already tried talking to him. The Headmaster is adamant that you work with Slughorn—I know you don’t want to,” he adds as Darcy protests loudly, with much swearing and abuse of Slughorn. Snape allows her to finish, letting her speak until she’s red in the face and teary-eyed and breathing heavily, thoroughly reliving her first meeting with Slughorn. “Listen to me carefully, Darcy.”

Darcy wipes angrily at her damp cheeks. The thestrals stops upon reaching the castle’s courtyard. Other carriages approach, and the sounds of students laughing and talking surround them, their own carriage shaking as students swarm towards the Entrance Hall.

“You are not a child any longer, and I will not tolerate you acting like one anymore.” Snape inhales deeply, finally reaching out for her hand and holding it so tight that it almost hurts. “Sometimes we must do things that are not . . . our preferred course of action, but we must do them dutifully and to the best of our abilities, do you understand me?”

Bewildered, Darcy can only nod slowly. And then she can keep quiet no longer. “Lucius Malfoy told them, didn’t he? That we cared about each other?” When Snape doesn’t answer, Darcy presses on, dejected. “I’m sorry, Professor. I never meant to . . . Professor Dumbledore told me at the beginning of summer that you’re likely going to be cold towards me.”

Snape looks at her for a long time, ignoring the rumble of students around them and the impatient snorting of the thestral. “The fault lies with me. You have nothing to apologize for. I never anticipated or . . . intended to care for you as I do and . . . it has put a strain on my . . .” He breathes deeply again, as if these words are causing him physical pain. “I have no wish to hurt you, and I hope that you would remember that if you feel I’ve been cruel in the near future.”

Darcy bristles. “Why do you have to be cruel at all? Why can’t you just say nothing? That’s like, one of Madam Pomfrey’s most basic rules of life—don’t say anything if you’ve nothing nice to say at all.”

Snape looks down into his lap, brushing off his clean robes—black, always black. “Dare I ask how Lupin is?”

Darcy scoffs to herself. She knows that Snape couldn’t care less about how Lupin is, but she knows what he’s looking for. “He’s gone away for a mission,” she answers. “But when he comes home, I’ll be waiting for him.”

Snape flinches, as if she’s hit him.

Lowering her voice to a gentle whisper, Darcy squeezes his hand that’s still holding tight to hers. “Come on,” she rasps, blushing again. “You didn’t actually think anything would come of this, did you?”

He pulls his hand away from her. “Are you happy?” Snape asks, looking as if he dreads the answer. “With him?”

Darcy smiles weakly, nodding. “Yes, I am.” And it’s the truth. There is no hesitation behind the words, not a shred of doubt. “We should get to the feast. It’s probably going to start soon.”

Snape agrees. He jumps down from the carriage first, helping Darcy down with her hand in his, his eyes fixed on a point far down the drive, even as Darcy clambers out, brushing herself off. The thestral waves its tail indignantly and starts its journey back down the drive. “What is this?”

Lifting her eyes to meet Snape’s line of vision, she sees it immediately. It must be a Patronus—translucent, yet at the same time something solid. It’s a big thing, and one she’s unfamiliar with. As it approaches, it grows bigger and bigger, running on four strong legs until it’s sitting right in front of Darcy. Her entire body tenses at the sight of it, very familiar now. As if she wouldn’t recognize it, as if she hadn’t slept with one just last night. The Patronus is a tall and beautiful and distinctly a werewolf, which Snape notices, as well. When it speaks, it speaks with _her_ voice, which is painful.

“ _I have Harry. Need escort to castle_.”

It vanishes.

Her first thought is of Harry—why hadn’t he come with the others? What happened to him? Why is he so late? But knowing that he’s safe with Tonks eases these fears, and Darcy then turns her attention to something else—Tonks herself. Darcy can’t help but think it a damn bold move to send her a Patronus that has taken on the form of a werewolf. She tries to call the carriage back, but the thestral ignores her, trotting down behind all the others now rattling off.

Snape turns slowly to face Darcy, an incredulous and pained and, quite plainly, shocked expression on his face. “Him?” he asks, a look of disgust replacing the incredulity. “ _Really_? _Lupin_?”

Darcy scowls at him. “Maybe you can test your charm on Tonks, see where it gets you.” She looks down at her watch. “Tell Professor Slughorn I’ll be late, would you?”

“I’ll do no such thing,” Snape replies, grabbing onto her arm as she goes to walk down the long and winding road. “I’ll go with you.”

“I think I’m capable of collecting my brother alone.”

“Go inside, Darcy. I’ll handle this.”

“The Patronus was sent _to me_ ,” Darcy counters, tearing her arm from Snape’s grip. “Besides, you only want to go alone so you can be cruel to Harry without me putting a stop to it.” When he has no answer to this, Darcy shakes her head. “Unbelievable.”

“What?”

“ _You_.”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re insufferable,” she huffs, beginning her walk with Snape at her side.

“Me? It’s you that’s the nightmare,” Snape protests. “All you do is cry and talk my damn ear off—”

Darcy turns and smacks him hard on the chest. They argue all the way down the drive, sure their voices carry clear down to Harry and Tonks and up to the castle, but Darcy doesn’t care. It feels so good to be able to take her anger out on someone who is willing to, not only take it, but fight back with equal fervor.

For a few minutes, Darcy feels like she’s nineteen again—her relationship with Professor Snape still shaky, Voldemort not yet returned to his body, Sirius still alive and somewhat well, Lupin waiting for her at his home.

For a few minutes, Darcy is happy again. 


	9. Chapter 9

“Holy shit, Harry—what the hell happened to your nose?”

Blood leaks from both nostrils of his crooked and broken nose. Snape helps her open the gates that keep her separated from Harry and Tonks by tapping his wand on the large padlock, and Darcy pulls them apart. Darcy can _feel_ Snape’s sneer from behind her as she gathers an already irritable Harry into her arms.

“Can you fix this?” he murmurs, glancing over his shoulder at a dispirited looking Tonks. “Please?”

Darcy nods, pulling out her wand and pointing it at his nose. “ _Episkey_!” she says, and she watches as Harry’s nose sets itself perfectly with a slight _crack_. “Better?”

“Much better. Thanks,” Harry answers, feeling his nose, checking for a lump on the bridge of it.

“I meant for Darcy to get the message, not you,” Tonks interrupts, frowning as she forcibly avoids Darcy’s eyes, looking instead at Professor Snape.

“As it happens, I was with Darcy when your Patronus reached her. To have both Potters wandering around without someone to keep an eye on them is a most foolish idea,” Snape explains, and an oily smile crosses his face. Darcy tries to silently communicate with him, trying will him to _shut up_ , but either he doesn’t get the message or—more likely—he ignores it. “However, we were very interested to see your new Patronus, Nymphadora.”

Darcy flushes, looking apologetically at Tonks and shaking her head, but Tonks still doesn’t look at her. For some reason, this small gesture—or lack thereof—ignites a fire in the pit of Darcy’s stomach. Why should Darcy feel bad about how Tonks feels? It isn’t Darcy’s fault that Lupin has made his decision, not her fault that Lupin doesn’t feel for Tonks what he feels for her. How long is this charade going to go on? Tonks probably feeds off Darcy’s guilt, is probably waiting for Darcy to be so overwhelmed with it that she’ll leave Lupin.

_You’re being cruel._

She didn’t feel bad when she went around kissing him behind closed doors and begging him to have her.

_You and Remus weren’t together then._

But she still did it, against girl code, even if Darcy doesn’t really think that’s a thing.

_You wouldn’t have done the same if the roles were reversed?_

Darcy wants to imagine she would be the better person if the roles were reversed, but for some reason, she doesn’t think that’s very realistic. When has she ever been the better and bigger person? She’s sure there’s been at least three times in her life where she has been . . . she’d been the bigger person at Privet Drive, but even then, she’d run her mouth to Vernon far too often, and what kind of example does that set?

But she can’t pretend the Patronus hadn’t bothered her. Patronuses are supposed to be directly tied to emotions, and Tonks had just proved her love for Lupin in front of Darcy. Sure, she’d meant well, and of course Darcy is glad that Tonks had sent a message in the first place, or else she would have worried herself into a panic upon seeing Harry missing in the Great Hall. The fact that Tonks’ Patronus has changed into a werewolf is not exactly the main point that truly bothers her, however. It’s the fact that Darcy isn’t sure that her Patronus would change for Lupin, as well.

Pulling herself out of her own head, Harry bids Tonks goodnight after Snape makes another sharp jab at Tonks’ new Patronus (a jab that Darcy allows without even her best ‘mother’ look, something that Harry and his friends have come to fear over the summer). Once Tonks turns her back to leave, huffing loudly, the three of them—Snape, Darcy, and Harry—begin their ascent back to the castle. She knows better than to ask Harry what the hell happened to him, knowing very well that he won’t give her any explanation in front of Snape.

Snape doesn’t dare insult Harry in front of Darcy, especially not after they’d argued all the way down, but there is a triumphant look on Snape’s face and a murderous expression on Harry’s. Stuck between the both of them, Darcy just wants to reach the Great Hall as soon as possible. The tension is thick, a heavy weight pressing on all of them, who are all bursting to speak. Part of Darcy is privately very pleased with the way both Harry and Snape hold their tongues in her presence, whether out of respect for her or because they want to avoid getting a tongue-lashing themselves, she doesn’t really care.

As the reach the steps of the castle, finally able to hear the chatter of students within and the clinking of cutlery on the golden plates, Darcy sends Harry along first after wiping the dried blood off his face. Snape watches on, almost bored with her brief display of affection for her brother away from the eyes of his friends. Harry thanks her quietly and hurries off with a last look at Snape.

Darcy watches him go for a moment, the prospect of walking into the Great Hall suddenly very overwhelming. The last thing she wants is everyone looking at her, and she especially doesn’t want to have to suffer through Slughorn’s questioning and have to listen to him talk. At least when Ludo Bagman talked and talked and talked, it was entertaining, and he enjoyed making Darcy laugh and blush and smile. Slughorn doesn’t seem to care very much if Darcy finds his stories and endeavors interesting in the slightest, clearly only interested in the sound of his own voice.

She has too much to think about to be sitting beside Horace Slughorn. Lupin, Tonks, Tonks’ Patronus (he said he wanted to have children with me), Ludo Bagman, her own Patronus, Marcus Belby (he said as many as I wanted), her typewriter, Snape (where’s Max?), working with Slughorn (they better not have confiscated my cigarettes during their search).

“You’re disgusting,” Snape scoffs from her side.

Darcy frowns and looks up at him, affronted, not having realized they’re standing nearly shoulder to shoulder. The chill, mountain breeze blows at her back through the front doors, making her shiver. “Why am I disgusting?”

“You’re thinking about your Patronus, aren’t you?”

Darcy blushes, tearing her eyes away from him. “Do you swear you’re not reading my mind?” she snaps, feeling incredibly vulnerable.

“Do you ever think of anything other than boys?” Snape clenches his jaw, a muscle jumping in his cheek. “I’ve told you, it’s not mind reading—something your brother doesn’t understand, but something I thought you might be able to grasp.” He relaxes then, looking towards the golden candlelight spilling out of the doors to the Great Hall. “I know you hate to admit it, but I know you far better than you think. Incidentally, what form does your Patronus take?”

“A doe. At least, it was the last time I casted it. Why?”

At these words, Snape stiffens beside her. “A doe?”

Darcy hums, sighing heavily, wanting to walk right up the marble staircase and go to bed. “What’s your Patronus?”

Snape clears his throat. “I . . . don’t know. It’s been a long time.”

“What was it before?” Darcy asks, but as she looks up at him again, she can tell her question makes him uncomfortable. She clears her throat again, flashing him a small smile. “You know, I don’t think I’ve congratulated you yet on the new position, only complained about it. So . . . congratulations.” Her heart isn’t really in it, but she tries to sound as genuine as she can. “You’ve finally gotten what you wanted. How does it feel?”

Snape turns his head very slowly to look at her. He’s only an inch or so taller than her, but his gaze makes her feel very small, only a child. She wants to cling to him, to hold onto his arm, to never let go. “Not as good as I had imagined it would be,” he says.

“Nothing ever is,” Darcy says, feeling that she’s very much the person to say this. Everything in her life seems to have been a disappointment, and she knows that she has a bad habit of romanticizing things, something she shares with Snape if she knows him at all. “Ever since I found out that Sirius was innocent, all I wanted was for us to be like, a family, you know? And I had it—briefly, yes, but I had it. And it wasn’t the Christmas card, cookie-cutter family I pictured we would be and it . . . absolutely broke my heart.”

He doesn’t answer right away, and Darcy knows it’s because she’s brought up Sirius. She’s sure that his desire to say something hurtful about Sirius is battling with his desire to not hurt Darcy’s feelings. “Darcy,” he murmurs, and she looks up at him with tears in her eyes. “I’m sorry.”

Darcy inhales through her nose, swallowing the lump in her throat and forcing herself to smile at Snape. His words and tone are so genuine, and she knows that she will likely never hear him speak so gently of Sirius again. “It’s okay.” She sniffles, rocking back and forth on her feet. “Besides, you haven’t even started your first day yet. It could be just the way you thought it would be.”

“I don’t think I share your optimism.”

“You rarely ever do. You aren’t afraid of the jinx?”

“What a childish thing to say.”

“How else do you explain the fact that we’ve not had a single Defense professor stay longer than one year since . . . well, since I’ve been here?”

Snape inhales loudly. “Coincidences and bad judgement on the Headmaster’s part.”

“Bad judgement?” she chuckles. “What does that say about you, I wonder? Might be Dumbledore’s just trying to get rid of you.”

“Stop joking around, Darcy,” Snape says, and while he isn’t unkind about it, his tone is firm.

Darcy can’t say why the idea of not working with Snape hits her like a train right now. Her smile falls and she resigns to the idea that she must enter the Great Hall sooner or later. “Well, I hope it’s everything you wished for.” She takes hold of his arm gently and squeezes before letting go. “I should get to the feast.”

Before Snape can reply or stop her, Darcy steps up to the entrance to the Great Hall, attracting Dumbledore’s attention for a brief moment, as if he hadn’t expected her to show up. There are only two seats empty at the staff table—Snape’s seat, directly on Dumbledore’s left (Darcy’s old seat has been filled by an oblivious and lost looking Professor Trelawney), and what Darcy presumes is her own seat, in between Professors McGonagall and Slughorn. She sighs, adjusts the wrinkled robes around her shoulders, which had been hastily put on just before the Hogwarts Express had pulled up to Hogsmeade Station.

Halfway to the staff table, Draco Malfoy says loudly from his place at the Slytherin table, eager for Darcy’s attention, “Good thing Potter’s mummy was there to save him,” he sneers, miming the breaking of a nose as Crabbe and Goyle gasp with laughter. Malfoy’s smile turns malicious, his eyes narrowing, ignoring the obnoxious guffawing of his friends. “You know what I think? I think you’re going to go the same way as your mother, _Professor_.”

Darcy’s heart gives a painful leap and her stomach churns, anger surging through her veins. “And you’ll go the same way as your father,” she hisses, causing Malfoy’s eyebrows to rise quickly in surprise. “Don’t worry, you’ll be excused from homework if you’re in Azkaban.”

Malfoy’s face suddenly hardens, as if he’s aged ten years within seconds. “You think you’re so clever, don’t you? Just because you got lucky once doesn’t mean you’ll—”

“Draco, _enough_.” Snape’s abrupt appearance causes Malfoy to hesitate, and Snape gives Darcy a sharp shove in the lower back to keep her moving. He doesn’t say a word to her, parting company when they reach the slightly elevated table and take their seats.

With her pulse pounding in her ears, Darcy sits between McGonagall (who immediately tells her to stop slouching in her chair) and Slughorn (who immediately launches into a fond reminiscence about his boyhood rivalry with a Gryffindor who had ended up becoming some famous Magizoologist or a caretaker—one or the other, Darcy doesn’t really know, only half listening herself. Even Professor McGonagall gives her a few sympathetic looks as Slughorn continues to talk, growing ever closer to the subject she so detests—herself.

It had been one thing to work with Snape, who had already been familiar with her traumas and problems to an extent. Not that he’d ever really tiptoed around her feelings, but he’d been considerate enough to avoid talking about things that usually made her cry. Case in point—her parents, a topic typically only ever brought up in conversation by Darcy herself. However, Slughorn seems to think that talking about James and Lily incessantly will earn Darcy’s favor instead of making things worse. She wouldn’t be surprised if, upon finding out about her relationship with Sirius, he chattered non-stop about Sirius, as well, just to really drive the point home that Slughorn doesn’t give a damn about her already fractured psyche, or is too oblivious to realize that his words hurt her.

 _God, give me back Ludo Bagman_ , she prays, holding her head in her hands. Darcy glances over to the other side of the table, meeting Snape’s eyes for a split second before looking back down at her empty plate. Some days the ache for Ludo is worse than others. Today is one of those days. How refreshing it had been to meet someone who so enthusiastically cared for her in such a way. Her forehead burns hot where Ludo had kissed her brow so many times.

Finally, Dumbledore rises to his feet, putting an end to the feast that Darcy hasn’t touched, and Slughorn falls quiet. Dumbledore gives the usual speech, about Quidditch teams and Filch’s regurgitated nonsense about prank items coming into the castle, and other rules that Darcy has heard repeated now ten times since the first year she’d come to Hogwarts. Not that they really mean anything to her—and not that she meant to disrespect Dumbledore’s rules—but the out-of-bounds Forbidden Forest had almost enticed her to go in for very important reasons every time she had entered. He introduces Slughorn, who stands to mild applause and bows happily, his hat nearly falling off his bald head. It’s only when Dumbledore announces his position as Potions Master instead of new Defense teacher do the students become distracted. Upon the learning of Snape’s new appointment, everyone begins to whisper and murmur among themselves. The Slytherins look delighted, but the Gryffindors are all wearing similar expressions of shock and denial.

Professor McGonagall takes advantage of the momentary distraction to lean closer to Darcy. “And how do you feel about this new appointment, Potter?”

Darcy considers being honest, for Professor McGonagall has always been kind and receptive, if not slightly curt and brusque. Her gaze lingers on a triumphant looking Snape before answering. “I’m very happy for him, and wish him nothing but success.”

Snape catches Darcy’s eye, his victorious smile flickering, but she’s pleased he has the grace to look ashamed, even if it is only for a second.

* * *

“So you just . . . weren’t going to tell us that Snape was the new Defense teacher?” Ron asks, flopping onto Darcy’s sofa and groaning contently. “Because I thought that was a pretty big deal.”

“Dumbledore didn’t want me to tell you,” Darcy protests, putting some of her books away with the others already on the shelves. “He thought if I did, the three of you might explode.”

“I’m halfway there already,” Ron mutters, grinning at Darcy when she gives him a sharp look over her shoulder. “Must be nice though, yeah? Knowing you don’t have to work for Snape anymore?”

“I wasn’t working _for_ Snape, I was working _with_ Snape, thank you very much,” Darcy retorts. She pinches the bridge of her nose, trying to will her pounding headache away. When she looks up again, it’s to find Harry giving her an almost too understanding look. Darcy looks away quickly, afraid she’ll reveal too much with just a look. “Anyway, I’m not sure Slughorn is a step up.”

“Come off it!” Ron protests, sitting up straight and looking affronted. “Slughorn is a _massive_ step up from Snape.”

“Dumbledore and Remus say we need to trust Snape—”

“Trusting someone and liking someone are two completely different things,” Ron argues, and Darcy crosses her arms over her chest. “Surely Lupin realizes that, too. I mean, I know you’ve got this weird thing with Snape, but you haven’t forgotten what he’s actually done, have you?”

Darcy’s anger boils over the edge, and she is truly sorry that it comes out directed at Ron. “I don’t think that’s any of your business to tell me how I should see Snape,” she hisses, feeling more guilty when she sees Ron’s ears turn bright red. Even Harry blushes. “Just because I don’t confide in you every little thing that happens between us doesn’t mean that I’ve forgotten what he’s done. I don’t think I’m in a mind to hear any open-mindedness speeches from you, Ron, who won’t even look a Slytherin in the eye on mere principle.”

He grumbles something under his breath, sinking into the sofa looking like an overripe tomato.

“You said you had important news, so get on with it.” Darcy turns her back on them, putting away the rest of her books and starting with the clothes she’d brought home for the summer. She urges them into the back bedroom, where Ron grudgingly falls backwards on her bed, still grumbling. “Am I finally going to hear the riveting tale of how Malfoy broke your nose, Harry?”

Shifting awkwardly on his feet, Harry nods. “After lunch with Slughorn—” (Ron makes a _pfft_ sound at the mention of Slughorn) “—I followed Blaise back to where Malfoy was sitting. I had the Invisibility Cloak, but . . . anyway, Malfoy saw me and Petrified me and broke my nose. I would have been halfway to London by now if Tonks hadn’t found me.”

Darcy presses her fingers into her temples. The thought of Tonks makes her chest burn with anger.

“What was Tonks’ Patronus?” Harry asks innocently, too casually. “Was it Sirius? Looked like a dog.”

“It was a fucking werewolf, wasn’t it?”

“Oh.” Harry falls silent, digesting this.

“What a little prick he is,” Ron adds helpfully, seemingly glad to have something to say. Back on the topic of Draco Malfoy, Harry perks up again, not looking so afraid of being told off or snapped at. “Tell her the other part, mate. About what he said before he saw you. See what she thinks.”

Harry swallows hard, looking nervously from Ron to Darcy. She turns away, the anger still obvious on her face, she’s sure, and begins to put away the many clothes she has. Sometimes she has to wonder how she’s accumulated so many clothes over the years, but half of them are Emily’s things that she doesn’t wear or doesn’t like, and the other half are the outfits Gemma had bought her for absolutely no reason other than she liked them.

“He was talking to Crabbe, Goyle, Zabini, and Pansy Parkinson. Sounded to me like he was a bit bothered Slughorn didn’t invite him to lunch,” Harry begins. “But anyway, he was saying things like he wasn’t even sure he’d be back next year, that Voldemort has a job for him. That the job he has for him is one that you don’t need to be qualified for.”

Darcy is quiet for a moment as she mulls this over. “Did he say anything or hint towards what the job is supposed to be?”

“No.”

“And he was upset that Slughorn didn’t invite him to lunch, but invited Blaise?”

“Yes.”

“Harry, did it occur to you that maybe Malfoy was just feeling a little bitter or . . . jealous? And he wanted to make himself seem important in front of his friends after Blaise came back?” Darcy closes the full drawer and sighs. “The kid has an ego like Lockhart’s. If I felt excluded, I’d probably do the same thing.”

“I told you!” Ron interjects, and both Harry and Darcy turn to look at him. He clears his throat. “It’s just that—I told Harry that he was only showing off for Parkinson.”

Darcy shrugs, leaning more towards Ron’s argument, but not in the mood to openly admit it. As sketchy as the situation is, Darcy still has a hard time believing Voldemort would recruit Draco Malfoy, and she doesn’t find it hard to believe that he’d go out of his way to make himself seem important, especially after his father was sent to Azkaban.

“Why can’t you see that I’m right?” Harry hisses, clearly hurt by Darcy’s lack of reaction. “How can you just ignore this after everything?”

“Look, Harry,” Darcy says warningly, her patience far too thinned out to take much more of this childish whining. “You’ve already pitched me your Draco-Malfoy-Is-A-Death-Eater theory, and not only has Gemma disproved it already—”

“She didn’t disprove it, she just said it was highly unlikely!”

“—but you have failed to present any concrete evidence. Lies are not concrete evidence.”

“And what about Greyback?” Harry asks quickly, his eyes wide and angry and pleading. His cheeks are flushed as his voice rises. “What about what happened in Borgin and Burkes? Malfoy’s up to something—”

“—and that doesn’t mean you should go straight to assuming he’s a Death Eater!” Darcy shouts, quieting Harry instantly. She slams her trunk closed and gets to her feet, pretending not to notice Ron, still red upon her bed, who seems to prefer being invisible. “I have enough on my plate right now without you trying to convince me that a sixteen-year-old boy is a Death Eater because you overheard him talking vaguely about things that you don’t understand.”

“But—”

Darcy raises her eyebrows, talking over Harry. “I don’t want to hear it!” she says, and Harry’s eyes fall to the ground, his face falling. She runs a hand down her face, feeling sorry for disappointing him, but knowing if she shows that she’s sorry, Harry will have won. “Promise me you’ll forget about Malfoy and focus on your schoolwork.”

When Harry’s eyes meet hers again, he looks beyond livid. “You aren’t my mother. You want to be mum so badly, but you’re not my mum, and Lupin isn’t my dad. So you can both drop the act.”

Darcy feels that her heart has been crushed. The wind is knocked out of her for a moment, but she’s able to keep herself from crying for a few minutes. “Duly noted,” she says in a level tone that doesn’t even sound like herself. “From now on, you don’t have to worry about us smothering you. Forgive us for wanting to have some stability in your life after everything.”

Harry looks for a second as if he’s going to say something. He opens his mouth, his face and body relaxing, but closes it after a second.

She takes advantage of this, looking from Harry to Ron and back again. “It’s past curfew. You heard Dumbledore, the both of you. You shouldn’t be out at night.”

Ron doesn’t have to be told twice. He races out of the bedroom, red and blotchy all over. Harry lingers, torn between wanting to leave and wanting to stay and keep up his argument. It’s clear that Harry knows he’s hurt Darcy, and while she thinks his outburst unfair in every sense of the word, the last thing she wants to do is for Harry to make it worse by not knowing when to stop talking. With a deep intake of breath, Harry pulls the Invisibility Cloak out of his pocket and walks slowly from the bedroom.

Darcy waits until their footsteps recede from her office on the other side of the door to her rooms before crying. Part of her is amazed that she had been able to hold back tears for so long, amazed that her body had listened to her and obeyed her in ways it normally doesn’t.

It’s not like it’s the first time Harry has said something in the heat of the moment, in an intense argument. It hasn’t happened for some time, of course—the last time Harry had hurled a _I hate you!_ or a _You’re not my mum!_ , he had only been a child, upset because Darcy had denied him something or was unable to calm him during a rage. The words had hurt her back then, but a few hours after he’d say them, Harry would come to her with a picture he’d drawn or a few flowers plucked straight from Aunt Petunia’s garden.

She doesn’t hope for anything like that this time.

Darcy sits before a fire for a long time, drinking wine while fiddling with the Knut. It takes nearly ten minutes for her coin to grow hot in return. She watches the serial numbers change of their own accord as Lupin fusses with them, moving them lazily up and down. With the warmth the Knut provides, Darcy feels this might be the closest thing to holding hands she may get for weeks. She can picture his hands so clearly—long-fingered and callused, tiny pink scars on the backs of his hands, the gentlest hands Darcy has ever known. She can picture his fingers rolling with hers in that distracted way they do. When the numbers stop moving, she messes with them again, and they repeat this process for nearly thirty minutes, until her coin grows cool and the numbers don’t move again.

Searching for a distraction from her argument with Harry, thinking about Sirius, from her anxiety regarding working with Slughorn versus Snape, Darcy retrieves her typewriter and sets it up on the table before the fire. She seats herself on the carpet, cross-legged, a cigarette between her lips, just like she’d pictured herself when she’d sat down at Mrs. Tuttle’s typewriter.

She struggles with the paper for a minute, swearing as it crumples and wrinkles before finally slipping neatly into the typewriter. Then she stares at the blank paper and the individual keys, wondering what even to write in the first place. Tapping the ash from her cigarette into a glass ashtray, she begins to type a recollection of what had happened today, just like Lupin had suggested, so she won’t forget to tell him anything when he comes back.

But she’s so frustratingly slow, using her index fingers to poke and prod at the keys, the satisfactory _tap-tap-tap_ giving her some motivation, but not enough. After what feels like forever, Darcy’s only written maybe five sentences, and they’re hardly coherent. She’s made so many mistakes, it looks like sometimes she hadn’t hit the letter key hard enough, and the letter doesn’t show up well on the paper. Darcy can’t imagine writing an entire play or a novel with this stupid machine, when she could just get a quill and Charm it to write on parchment as she dictates to it.

_But anyone can do that. Rita Skeeter can do that._

So she continues to clack away at the typewriter, ignoring all the mistakes she’s made, trying to find the letters, wondering why they aren’t at least in alphabetical order. She’ll get better. She hopes.

Five minutes after her newfound belief in herself, something happens with the ribbon and the spool, and Darcy groans, half-drunk. “No!” she groans, trying to fix it, but not knowing where to begin, her fingers coming back inky. “Fucking hell piece of shit—” Darcy raises a hand to smack the typewriter away, but hesitates, looking around as if about to be caught by someone. She lowers her hand, not wanting to break it and have to explain that to Harry.

Near one o’clock in the morning, Darcy decides the thing that she’s best at is drinking, and it’s the drink that puts her to sleep, the Knut held loosely in her hand.

* * *

Three owls come to her the morning of her first day of classes.

The first is a tawny owl bringing her the day’s _Daily Prophet_. Darcy gives him a Knut and sends him on his way, the tips of his wings flapping in her face. The front page boasts a black-and-white picture of Rufus Scrimgeour looking as intimidating as always, his lips drawn tight as he looks around at the flashing cameras. Emily’s name is featured on a smaller column about the Chudley Cannons new sponsor.

The second is Demeter, Emily’s owl, quickly and dutifully dropping off a letter before flying away again.

Darcy’s still chewing her toast, working on opening Emily’s letter when Max arrives empty-handed. His wings ruffle Professor McGonagall’s hat and Professor Slughorn recoils slightly on her other side, but Max seems content to nuzzle in her lap to assert his place as Darcy’s favorite owl.

“Potter, normally I would insist your owl return to the owlery straightaway, but . . .” Professor McGonagall adjusts her hat, looking at Max with a bewildered expression. “That must be the most . . . _docile_ owl I’ve ever seen.”

“I beg to differ, Minerva,” Slughorn chuckles. Darcy finds two letters within the envelope, opening the one marked _OPEN FIRST_ in very large writing. “That docile owl almost tore Darcy’s arm to shreds on the train.”

“Yeah, but I got it fixed,” Darcy answers, narrowing her eyes as she reads the letter. The handwriting is definitely Emily’s, loopy and neat.

_Darcy,_

_I’m under strict orders to make sure this other letter arrives on your first morning at Hogwarts. I hope it reaches you by then._

_Good luck with classes. I’ll be in Hogsmeade on your birthday. Meet me in the Three Broomsticks for dinner._

_Love,_

_Emily_

With one hand, Darcy feeds Max some small bits of sausage, his beak nipping her fingers. With her other, she flips open the letter and her breath hitches.

_Darcy,_

_Good luck on your first day. I know you’ll be brilliant._

_Love,_

_Remus_

Darcy lowers the letter, smiling to herself. It only makes her miss him more, the knowledge that he’d been thoughtful enough to make sure she’d receive a good luck letter. She scratches under Max’s beak and reaches into her pocket, changing the numbers on the Knut and feeling it warm in her palm only a minute later.

“So, my dear!” Professor Slughorn says suddenly, causing Max to start and fly away from her. Darcy quickly folds up the letter and tucks it into the pockets of her robes. “I hate to admit that I still know very little of you.”

“Right,” Darcy answers, clearing her throat. “Well, I’m not really an interesting person. Besides, it’s only the first day, sir.”

Professor McGonagall stands up, withdrawing from her robes some rolled up parchment. Darcy gives her a pleading look, but McGonagall only raises her thin eyebrows in a _deal-with-it_ sort of way. A very McGonagall way. Darcy works her jaw, sighing, staring after McGonagall as she walks over to the Gryffindor table.

“I’m sure that’s not true . . . Albus did tell me you were very modest.”

“Did he now?”

Slughorn hums, looking at Darcy with a far off expression and a smile on his face. “I know that you’ve a natural talent for Potions and you are a gifted witch by everyone’s account—though that’s to be expected from a Potter, isn’t it?” He gives a heart laugh, patting his stomach. Darcy laughs weakly along with him, not quite sharing his enthusiasm for the subject. “I mean, my dear, what are your goals? What drives your ambition? Twenty-years-old and your entire life ahead of you filled with glorious opportunities—and if you need a foot in the door somewhere, I’d like you to come to me, Darcy. We could make an excellent team, you and I, and I so look forward to working with you.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, sir.” Darcy drinks some coffee to fill the silence as he waits for a proper answer. What are her goals? What ambition does she have? “You know, Professor, as of right now, I’m really just trying to take things one day at a time. You never know what tomorrow may bring, right?”

“Oh, but it is jolly good to dream sometimes, my dear. For instance, when I was your age, I wanted to be a broadcaster for the Wireless Wizarding Network. There was a weekly program back then—you wouldn’t remember, of course, you’re too young—that was hosted by a bloke named Darren Dillyshire, and what he did was talk about all sorts of fascinating things for his two hour slot. Every week he’d have something new to talk about, whether it be a recently discovered magical creature or he would debate the inclusion of goblins into Hogwarts . . . silly things like that, but well researched. The man knew everyone, of course, and he’d always have special guests on to discuss his topics.” Professor Slughorn takes the cloth napkin from out of the collar of his vest, while Darcy watches him with an almost incredulous look on his face. “I remember one week he had on the Minister of Magic at the time . . . Eugenia Jenkins. Very competent and very business-like and, of course, voted out when You-Know-Who came about, but she and Dillyshire remained lifelong friends until his death in . . . oh, what was it . . . eighty-six? Eight-seven? Regardless, a very useful friendship. Now, you were saying?”

Darcy can do nothing but blink in surprise at this man. She struggles with speech for a moment, unsure of how to even respond to such a rambling confession about something she cares little to nothing about. Her patience is already wearing thin, and she isn’t sure she’ll be able to cope with constant rants such as this. She decides maybe it’s just better to say what he wants to hear to put an end to it.

“I guess I would make an all right teacher,” Darcy says, throwing out any ideas that come to her head. She doesn’t dare confess her dream of being a mother, especially when it’s so unattainable. “Or a writer, maybe . . . I don’t know. Or maybe, like, a photographer. I suppose it wouldn’t be so bad traveling the world and just taking pictures.”

“You seem to have a spirit for adventure, am I right?” he asks, a gleam in his eye.

“Believe it or not, sir, I would much prefer a very calm life. If only I could wish it into existence.”

“And a writer . . . how interesting. What would you write about, do you think?”

Darcy blushes. The conversation is beginning to make her feel much worse after the wonderful note from Lupin she’d just gotten. “I don’t know, sir. I don’t think I really have many opinions worth sharing, or that people would find interesting.”

“I’m sure that’s not true. Well, what did you take classes for after your O.W.L.’s?” Slughorn asks again, and Darcy finds Snape in the crowd of Slytherins, handing out schedules. He doesn’t notice her watching him as he makes a schedule for Crabbe with a disappointed and impatient look on his face.

“All the classes required to be an Auror, actually.” She feels foolish saying it.

“I _knew_ there was ambition in you!” Slughorn exclaims. “Adventure, risk—you truly are a Gryffindor, aren’t you? So that’s the end goal for you, is it? I’ll have you know that Rufus and I go way back—Rufus Scrimgeour, that is, the Minister of Magic—and you may recall that he was once Head of Auror Office. If you were still interested . . .”

“I’m not,” Darcy insists, making it clear to Slughorn (she thinks) that her stance will not change. “I’m not interested in doing anything with the Ministry after the grief they’ve caused my brother and me.”

Slughorn’s smile fades. “Understandable. Times like these bring out the worst in people, of course . . .”

Snape hunches over beside Draco Malfoy, talking quietly into his ear, black hair blocking his face from Darcy’s view. “Not everyone,” she says softly, more to herself than to Slughorn. “Sometimes the bad times bring out the best in people. The sides that they wouldn’t show otherwise.”

Snape straightens, looks over his shoulder. His eyes wander across the Great Hall for a moment until fixing upon Darcy. She looks back down at her plate, moving her lukewarm eggs around with her fork.

“You know, I taught Severus myself. A fine potioneer . . . extraordinary, in fact. You should be very proud to have worked with him and to have been taught by him.”

Darcy flushes, knowing she’s been caught looking at Snape. “Yes, he’s very good.” The words sound foreign in her mouth. She wouldn’t have been caught dead saying something kind about Professor Snape whole still a student.

“Well . . .” Slughorn claps his hands together. “I can’t wait to see what you have in store for us, then. I’m sure you’ve learned much.”

She doesn’t answer him, and a few minutes later, Darcy excuses herself and makes for the dungeons. Before she can get a foot out of the Great Hall, someone calls her name. Hermione walks quickly towards her; Harry and Ron linger at the table, likely avoiding a confrontation.

Waving her new schedule in Darcy’s face, Hermione catches her breath, flushed. “I’ve got Potions today after lunch, and you know Harry and Ron are able to continue on with it!”

“Really?” Darcy raises an eyebrow, casting a curious look over at Harry and Ron. “I suppose now that Snape isn’t teaching Potions, the entry grade has become more . . . lenient, hasn’t it?” When Hermione confirms this, Darcy hums. “I guess I got the impression that they weren’t very interested in continuing Potions.”

“If they still want to be Aurors, they must,” Hermione reminds her, as if Darcy had forgotten, as if she hadn’t once dreamed the same dream. Hermione furrows her brows, looking sheepish. “You know he didn’t mean it, Darcy.”

“What do you think about . . . you know . . .” Darcy looks around the Great Hall, placing a hand on Hermione’s shoulder and urging her gently into the nearly empty Entrance Hall. “Did he tell you about Malfoy?”

“Yes,” Hermione frowns. There’s a hint of impatience in her tone that Darcy doesn’t fail to pick up on. “It’s all very suspicious, but you’re right. Voldemort wouldn’t bring an unqualified wizard into his ranks. I’m sure Malfoy just wanted to seem important. It’s awful what he did to Harry.”

“Maybe I’ll dock him points today just because.” Darcy laughs weakly, but Hermione doesn’t find it very funny. “Oh, shut up. Lucky Tonks was there to find him, anyway. I would have had a heart attack if the train took him right back to London.”

Hermione purses her lips, giving Darcy a sideways glance. “I heard Tonks’ Patronus has changed.”

“No. No, we’re not talking about that.” They stop walking at the bottom of the marble staircase. “Where are you headed now, anyway?”

“Ancient Runes,” Hermione replies, making her way up the first few steps. “I’ll see you in class, Darcy.”

Darcy shakes her head exasperatedly, starting again down the familiar, beaten path to one of her favorite places in the castle.

* * *

The first years are the first class of the day. This makes Darcy incredibly nervous, not knowing Slughorn’s teaching style at all, and afraid he’ll hate the lesson completely. Or worse, that the students will. Last year, part of her privately believed that most students were only so pleased with her lessons because they didn’t have to deal with Snape.

She decides to do the same thing she did last year, starting with a Forgetfulness Potion, where she’ll be brewing it with them. All of the ingredients are laid out on a desk at the front of the classroom when a sweet group of Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs come in, just under twenty in all. They all whisper excitedly as they take their seats, looking from Darcy to Professor Slughorn, who’s seated at the teacher’s desk, watching on with the feather of his quill brushing his chin. He sets up at the desk with his own potions kit and a few cauldrons, working without really having to pay much attention. Some potions are already close to finished, and some still need ingredients thrown in.

Anxiety seeps it’s way into her veins. Maybe it’s because she doesn’t have Professor Snape here to give her an encouraging nod, to be her source of comfort, but she can’t think of any other reason why she should be so nervous. Darcy tries to focus on the letter Lupin had made sure arrived today, reaches into her pocket to mess with the Knut, squeezing it in her palm.

“Good morning,” she says with a forced cheerfulness, receiving a sleepy and somewhat eager ‘good morning’ in reply. “You’re more than welcome to call me Darcy, and I’ll be taking over your class from Professor Slughorn.”

Another excited wave of whispering at this revelation. Darcy’s smile grows more genuine as everyone sits up in their seats a little straighter, eyes growing wider.

“You can all put your books away for the time being and come up here to the front,” Darcy continues, standing behind the cluttered desk as the students approach warily. Even Slughorn moves from his chair to observe the scene more closely. The door opens at the other end of the classroom, and Darcy knows without having to look up that it’s Dumbledore. “So I thought we might all brew a potion together today, just something easy. We’ll be going into more detail with it and these particular ingredients as term progresses, but we’ll just go over them briefly today. Does anybody know what potion we’re going to make?”

Darcy looks over their heads quickly at Dumbledore, who smiles and inclines his head politely. Suddenly feeling a rush of pride, Darcy’s confidence is bolstered a hundred times. Not one of the students raises their hand, but she is not deterred.

“A Forgetfulness Potion.” Darcy picks up the first ingredient, a vial full of small, round, white berries. She gives it a gentle shake. “Mistletoe berries. You should all have some of them in your supply kits. We’re going to be using them for another potion this year.”

She gives a Ravenclaw girl the vial to look at. As it moves to each student, being examined closely, Darcy moves onto the second ingredient.

“Sprigs of valerian,” she tells them, fingering the tiny petals. “You can use the roots in certain potions, as well, but not in any potions you’ll be brewing this year, or even your second year. Go on, pass them around, they won’t hurt you.”

The mistletoe berries make their way back to Darcy, and she replaces them upon the table, holding up another vial full of water.

“Water from the river Lethe. This is what makes a Forgetfulness Potion what it is. Likely, you won’t have this in your kits, but there is some in the supply cupboard you can use.”

Darcy passes around each ingredient before they begin. With her cauldron at the front of the class, their books out and their eyes fixed nervously upon Darcy, she slowly leads them through the proper steps to brewing a Forgetfulness Potion. The students become less nervous as time wears on and become thrilled that they’re able to create something on their first day of classes. Professor Slughorn paces around the classroom with a smile, peering into cauldron after cauldron, giving them tips as she might have done during one of Snape’s classroom, or else repeating Darcy’s advice to them or reminding them of what she’d said. In between that, he continues the brewing of his own potions.

Dumbledore slips out of the classroom as time grows short, and when the bell rings to signal the end of class, Darcy’s pleased to hear some groans and complaints coming from the students. Her heart is lighter than it has been all summer. She wishes Lupin could see her now, attracting the attention of anxious first years, making them smile with jokes, making them laugh. She wishes Sirius were here. She wishes James and Lily were here.

“To prepare for next time,” she calls after them all as they scramble to the door, “please read the introduction to your books, and we’ll all go through chapter one together!”

Slughorn chortles when the door closes. Darcy begins to gather her things, clearing off the desks that still have some leftover ingredients on them. “Is there a particular reason Albus hasn’t already given you the job?” When he chortles again, it makes his mustache quiver and his round stomach bounce slightly.

“I assume that only being twenty has something to do with it,” Darcy replies, smiling sheepishly at him. “Besides, Professor Snape wouldn’t have let me take his job over his dead body.”

“If being Potions Master is something you’re interested in—”

“You haven’t seen the other classes yet, Professor.” Darcy puts her book into her bag and slings it over her shoulder, moving her cauldron off the heat. “The first years only like me because they don’t know me all that well.”

Slughorn hums, looking back down into one of his cauldrons. “Come here, Darcy. Come look at these potions I’ve brewed. I’m curious about one in particular . . . you’ll be able to identify them all, won’t you? They’re for the sixth year class after lunch.”

The first potion takes her by surprise. The smell is intoxicating, which gives her an answer straight away. Amortentia—something Snape had them dabble with in seventh year, but something he’d only gone over very briefly with the seventh years since. She tells him so, and Slughorn is delighted by her correct answer.

“If you don’t mind my asking, what is it you smell?” Slughorn takes a big whiff himself.

Darcy can’t see any harm in telling him. It’s not as if any of the scents are particularly telling or anything to be ashamed of. She tries to focus on one at a time, moving ever closer to the potion as if it were a Pensieve enticing her with dangerous memories. “I smell firewhisky,” she confesses. That’s definitely the strongest, most recognizable scent. “The air after it rains, and a smoky smell . . . like from a fire in the fireplace. And . . .” She blushes, smiling at Slughorn and shrugging. “My favorite cologne that Remus wears.”

Slughorn seems thoroughly content with her answer. “A log fire must be one of the better smells I’ve ever smelled . . . wonderful, truly wonderful.” He sniffs. “Leather . . . Italian leather, that is . . . a distinct smell, indeed. And cinnamon-spiced mead . . . a delicacy. Isn’t it fascinating how much you can learn from a person just by what they smell?”

Darcy can’t help but to agree, thinking that the scent of Italian leather is certainly one way to find out more about Slughorn. A lover of the finer things (or the fin _est_ things in life, it seems). She wonders what Lupin would smell if he were here—his favorite food? sweets? _her_? And besides Lupin, Darcy tries to imagine what Gemma and Emily might smell. Maybe Emily would smell flowers and the headache-inducing smell of paint. Gemma might smell alcohol and the lingering, musty smell of number twelve, Grimmauld Place and some expensive cologne. After that, Darcy’s thoughts drift to Snape, and she can’t quite think of a scent that might appeal so much to him. Perhaps he’d smell the malady of scents the dungeon classroom has to offer, or perhaps fudge or the smell of the Black Lake.

(isn’t it fascinating how much you can learn from a person just by what they smell)

 _As if he’d ever tell me,_ she thinks. But she’s too curious not to try.

* * *

“I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”

“What do you mean it’s none of my business? Whatever you smell, it can’t be that bad.” Darcy holds up the vial, full of potion with the distinct mother-of-pearl sheen. It’s corked tight. “Do you want to know what I smell? I’ve just tried it down in the classroom with Professor Slughorn.”

“You shouldn’t be walking around Hogwarts with a vial of the strongest love potion in the world,” Snape frowns, glancing around the corridor as if expecting someone. “What do I win if I guess right? I’m sure it’s some combination of wet wolf and alcohol.”

Darcy scowls. “Partially right. Firewhisky was the number one.” She smiles sweetly at him, wrapping her fingers around his arm and pulling him into his classroom—the classroom that used to be Lupin’s. “Come on, Professor Snape. Aren’t you the least bit curious?”

His words are accompanied by a slight flush. “No. I’ve got more important things to deal with than to worry about what scents my subconscious finds most attractive.”

“You’re making a bigger deal out of it than it needs to be.” Darcy pockets the vial, knowing she won’t be able to convince him to smell it. “Don’t you want to know how my first class went?”

Snape exhales through his hooked nose in a very exasperated way, looking at her with his jaw clenched tight. “How did your first class go?” he asks in a voice of forced polite.

Darcy frowns, taking a step back. Her first full day at Hogwarts and she’s already annoyed him. “If you don’t want to know, that’s all you had to say.”

“No, Darcy—” Snape’s palm falls flat against the top of the teacher’s desk as she goes to turn away. “Come on, stop it. How was class?”

Darcy moves quickly to the nearest student desk at the front, hopping up on it swinging her legs back and forth. “So, remember last year when the first years cowered at the sight of you in the corner, even while I was teaching?”

Snape purses his lips and narrows his eyes. “No.”

She chuckles. “Well, they did. But without you standing in the corner looking ready to murder everyone, they were _much_ more at ease. Believe it or not, Slughorn isn’t too scary a bloke.”

“It sounds like it went well, then?” Snape beckons her to him as he makes for the few stairs that lead to the office Darcy is very familiar with. He opens a drawer at the bulky desk when she walks inside.

“It went well enough. I did the same thing as last year, the Forgetfulness Potion, but I brewed it with them this time.” Darcy folds her arms across her chest, leaning against the wall, looking around. Snape has filled the shelves with books, but not happy ones like Lupin had. Snape’s are mostly spellbooks relating to the Dark Arts, Potions books, jars full of things Darcy doesn’t understand, but are not pretty. “I meant to ask you . . . I got a Potions book for my birthday, and there are some recipes that look beyond anything I’ve ever tried. I thought maybe you could look it over with me.”

Snape looks up quickly from the parchment he pulls out of the drawer. “Your birthday’s passed?”

Darcy smiles, laughing at his concern. “No, it was an early birthday gift. My birthday’s on the tenth.”

“Did you ask Slughorn about the book? He is, after all, the new Potions Master.” His tone is sharp, brusque, cold.

This gives Darcy pause, especially the way his eyes go back to his parchment, straightening it out distractedly. She laughs nervously, her smile fading, along with her lightheartedness. “Come on, Professor Snape. Don’t be like that,” she says softly. “If I wanted his help, I would have asked.”

Snape doesn’t answer for a moment, the silence pressing heavy on them both. He flattens the stack of parchment upon the desk. “I’m sorry. Your brother has already tried my patience this morning.”

Darcy gives him a stony look. “What did you do?”

“A detention."

“Your first day without me in two years and you use it to give my brother a detention?” Darcy scoffs, running a hand through her hair. “What is wrong with you?”

Snape stands up straight, disregarding the parchment on the desk altogether. “He gave me _cheek_!”

“I give you cheek near everyday and all you ever do is make—” Darcy gestures to him with a very general hand motion. “— _that_ face at me.”

“You’re different—”

“So you’re admitting to a little bias when it comes down to it?” Darcy grins triumphantly.

He flushes bright red, his face contorting in frustration. “No, I—well, it’s not like I can give you a detention for being disrespectful now—he has no right to speak to me the way he does—”

“You’re not much better,” Darcy counters, not unkindly, but in a firm tone. Snape has the grace to look ashamed of himself. “Do you remember my first Potions class?” He turns his face away from her. “I walked in, terrified, and you looked at me and I just—the _way_ you looked at me, I thought you hated me.”

“I never hated you, Darcy.”

Darcy smiles weakly at him, hoping that he can sense the affection in it.

Snape seats himself in the high-backed chair, his hands clasped together atop the desk. “I kept looking back over my shoulder all morning, expecting you to be there. I’d start talking and forget you weren’t here to listen . . . or pretend to listen, anyway.”

His confession makes Darcy slightly emotional. It’s an overwhelming feeling, especially with Lupin gone—her main source of comfort and affection—and with Sirius dead. “We had a good run. A good two years. Or one good year and one shaky year, at least.” She clears her throat and stifles her smug smile. “You miss me. Admit it.”

He gives her a long, hard stare. “Are you done?”

Darcy frowns. She’s far from done. All she wants to do is talk, to talk to the only person who is willing to listen and understand. Without Snape, Hogwarts will be a lonely place, she thinks. “Why don’t you let people see you like this? The way that I see you?”

“Darcy—” he snarls, shoulders tense and his teeth bared. She quiets, watching his face soften slightly. “Enough. Don’t you have somewhere to be?”

She understands a dismissal when she hears one. “Yes. I’m late for lunch. Slughorn will wonder where I’ve run off to.”

“Then I suggest you leave now.”

Darcy nods. “Yes, sir.”

* * *

The sixth year N.E.W.T. class is small compared to her own sixth year class all those years ago. There had been sixteen in all in her class, the majority of them Hufflepuffs. Darcy always thought they talked too much and too loudly, and about stupid things too. They had thought Harry was the Heir of Slytherin, and only stopped when Gemma had turned around in her seat to snap, “Shut the fuck up”, causing Snape to reluctantly take five points from his own House.

But Darcy would much prefer to have those Hufflepuffs in this class, whispering about her and her brother, than to have to face Theodore Nott. He and Draco Malfoy take seats at the front of the class, dangerous looks on their faces. Though his hair is a sandy brown instead of the near-white hair of his father, Theodore looks so strikingly like his father otherwise that it makes Darcy nauseous. She was so sure, just thirty minutes ago, that there was no way Malfoy’s band of brothers would make it into N.E.W.T. Potions, and she isn’t all wrong. Crabbe and Goyle haven’t made it, but she’d much rather look at them than Nott.

Two other Slytherins sit at the table with Malfoy and Nott—Zabini files in with a girl whose blonde curls bounce with every step. Her face lacks the plain contempt written upon the others’, merely looking bored and tired.

Four Ravenclaws walk in together, two boys and two girls, who look eagerly around the classroom. They look at the three cauldrons Slughorn has set up, sitting at a table together and promptly taking out their books, talking quietly and flipping distractedly through the pages. At the other table, Harry, Hermione, Ron, and Ernie Macmillan, an arrogant Hufflepuff boy that Darcy’s sure means well, especially when he stops at the front of the class to stand over Darcy as she sits at the teacher’s desk drawing up lesson plans. She lifts her eyes slowly, waiting for him to speak, and Ernie promptly holds out his hand.

“Take a seat, Ernie,” she tells him flatly, looking back down at her parchment.

Ernie clears his throat, wiping his palm on his robes and slowly lowering it back to his side. “Right. Sorry. Just thought the old D.A.—”

“Right.” Darcy sighs and puts down her quill, looking up at Ernie with a forced smile. “Is there something I can do for you Ernie, or will a handshake suffice?”

“No,” he says quickly, red around the ears. “I’ll go sit down.”

“Darcy, Harry and I don’t have books or anything,” Ron says as Ernie takes a seat beside him and Slughorn bustles through the door of the classroom. “Can I borrow your scales? Your scales are nice, and I think they’re more calibrated and accurate than any scales I’ve ever owned.”

“Yeah, all right, come here.” Darcy beckons Ron to the front of the class with her index finger. Ron shrugs his shoulders at a mutinous look from Harry, approaching Darcy. She lifts her scales from the desktop, handing them to Ron and hesitating before letting go. Giving Ron her most serious look, she adds, “Don’t break them.”

“I won’t,” he says, annoyed, taking the scales from her.

“You can borrow some books and ingredients from the store cupboard until I’m able to buy Harry a new book.”

Indignant, Harry hisses from his seat, “I can buy my own book!”

Ron gives her an apologetic look before moving back to his seat, cradling her scales very carefully against his chest.


	10. Chapter 10

Hermione is able to correctly guess the three potions that Slughorn has prepared for class—the Amortentia, still emitting that deadly seductive smell of firewhiskey, smoke, damp air, and cologne; Polyjuice Potion, looking more like cat sick than anything, bubbling away inside the cauldron; Veritaserum, colorless and odorless, brewed perfectly to its typical clear consistency; and even the small bottle of Felix Felicis that Slughorn has offered as a prize, the tiny bottle full of golden potion, promising its user a single perfect day, a potion Darcy has never even attempted to brew.

Darcy tries to imagine for a long time as Slughorn goes over each of these potions, what her perfect day might be like. Maybe if she took Felix Felicis, Lupin would come home, maybe she’d be so perfect that he’d never want to leave again, maybe she’d be so perfect that he’d ask her to marry her on the spot. Maybe she’d get lucky enough to have Lupin put a baby in her—a _real_ baby, her baby, _their_ baby, one conceived on the day that she’s at her most perfect.

Slughorn sets the class to making the famously difficult potion, the Draught of Living Death. Snape had set Darcy’s sixth year class the same potion, and Emily had failed miserably halfway through, skipping a line of instructions and facing the wrath of Snape. Darcy had done relatively well until she’d attempted to cut her sopophorous bean, which hadn’t released as much juice as she’d hoped. That was when Snape had bent over her cauldron and told her to crush them with her knife instead of cutting them. Darcy had been hesitant to try it, but found that it worked very well, and with all of Snape’s tips, Darcy’s potion had turned out perfect. Emily hadn’t spoken to her for two days after her sopophorous bean had given her enough trouble to last a lifetime.

Usually, Darcy would be walking around, looking into everyone’s cauldron, handing out tips or helping them move smoothly from step to step. But today, she doesn’t leave the desk. Not that she’s prejudiced, of course—she’s not. She has Slytherin friends. Or . . . _a_ Slytherin friend. The truth of it is, having Theodore Nott and Draco Malfoy in class together frightens her slightly. She’s sure they haven’t forgotten what happened to their fathers, and Darcy isn’t positive they wouldn’t try doing something with their deadly potion that would include dumping said deadly potion on Darcy to hurt her. Judging by the smell of their potions and the colors of them, Darcy doesn’t think their potions are actually deadly at all, but she doesn’t like the way Nott looks at her, and would much rather sit down at her desk and stare wistfully at the Felix Felicis that will most certainly be Hermione’s by the end of the lesson.

Darcy wonders if she were to be honest with Hermione, explain that she doesn’t know if she’s able to have children, maybe Hermione would take pity on her. Maybe she could convince Hermione to split it with her—what would Hermione need Felix for anyway? Her grades are already perfect, her life is already perfect. Darcy reflects upon what it would be to have such a perfect life, and when she finds that resentment is beginning to creep up on her, she stops thinking about Hermione.

Curious, Darcy pauses in the middle of her lesson plans, reaching down into her bag for the Potions book that Kingsley and Mad-Eye had given her for an early birthday present. She’s only flipped through a few pages to find Potions she’s never heard of, but she opens to the very back of the book to check the index, running her finger down the few pages. There’s nothing about Liquid Luck or Felix Felicis, and Darcy looks at Slughorn quickly as he peers into Malfoy’s cauldron with a scrunched nose.

She watches Hermione for a moment, fingering the pages of her Potions book. The steam from all twelve cauldrons (plus the three that Slughorn had prepared) has made her hair grow bushier, reminding Darcy of eleven-year-old Hermione, when Darcy wasn’t sure if Hermione had ever heard of a brush. She tries to picture herself telling Hermione her horrible and humiliating secret— _by the way, I’m not sure that I’m able to have children, but I really, really want one, so I’ll need your Felix Felicis the day Remus comes back so we can fuck like animals and make a baby_. Perfect, Darcy thinks with a frown, Hermione will love it.

Slughorn calls an end to it after about an hour, pocketing the bottle of Felix before Darcy is too tempted to steal it. He weaves through the students, checking the mostly disastrous attempts at the potion. Darcy feels pride glowing in her chest, feeling disgustingly better than everyone in the classroom. _I brewed it perfectly when I was your age_. And then, she hates herself for thinking it at all.

Giving Hermione’s potion an appreciative nod, he moves onto Harry’s attempt, the last one yet to check. Darcy watches intently, feeling very smug at the prospect of Harry not doing so well. However, a great smile breaks suddenly on Slughorn’s face. He claps a thick hand to Harry’s shoulder and announces, “The clear winner!”

Darcy scoffs, but no one hears her over the murmuring that’s broken out. Harry’s eyes flick to hers and they stare hard at each other for a moment, Darcy’s jaw clenched and her teeth grinding.

“You’ve clearly inherited your mother and sister’s talent!” Slughorn coos, as Harry looks forcibly away from her to smile when Slughorn pushes the little bottle of golden potion into his hand. “Congratulations. Use it well.”

Both Hermione and Ron look at Darcy, both with very different expressions. Ron looks at her as if this couldn’t be possible (something Darcy can’t help but to agree with), and Hermione looks almost accusing, as if Darcy had had a hand in helping Harry brew the perfect potion.

Everyone leaves the classroom a short while later, looking distinctly disgruntled after not winning the bottle of Felix Felicis, and Harry pulls Ron along rather quickly to avoid conversation with Darcy, she’s sure. Hermione is the only one who hangs back at the end of the lesson, waiting for Professor Slughorn to clear off for dinner. As soon as the door closes behind him, Hermione sighs.

“Is it cruel to think that Harry couldn’t have possibly made the Draught of Living Death perfectly on his first try?” Darcy asks her, sounding slightly more hurtful than she’d intended. She turns her back on Hermione to hide her shame, cleaning the top of the desk and putting away her parchment and quill and ink bottle.

“I don’t know where I went wrong,” Hermione frowns, sounding troubled and almost irritable. “I followed the instructions perfectly, I thought, and mine wasn’t nearly as good as Harry’s.”

Darcy hums, turning back around to sit atop the desk. “What would you have used Felix for, anyway?”

Hermione shrugs, thinking hard. “I don’t know. Maybe . . . like, on a Hogsmeade weekend or something, where it’s really nice. Just have the perfect day in Hogsmeade. Or maybe I could use it during a regular day and Harry and Ron might stop . . . I don’t know.”

This gives Darcy pause. She crosses her arms over her chest. “Are they mean to you, Hermione?” When she doesn’t respond right away, Darcy feels very sympathetic. “I didn’t raise Harry to be that way. If he’s mean to you—”

“He’s not, I promise. It’s just . . . Ron can be a bit—”

“Insensitive?”

Hermione flashes her a crooked, weak smile. “Yes, I suppose so.”

Darcy exhales through her long nose.

“Look, Darcy, I know you mean well, but Harry just doesn’t like being mothered right now—”

“If he would listen to me once in a while, he’d realize I’m not doing it for him. Well, I am, but mostly I’m doing it for me.” Darcy softens, cringing at the bitterness in her tone. “Ever since Sirius died, I . . . if he would just talk about it, but he won’t, he refuses to even mention it, like it didn’t happen.”

“You could talk to me, you know,” Hermione offers rather timidly. “I’m always willing to listen, if you’d like. It would be good for you to talk to someone.”

“I do have someone to talk to.”

“Snape doesn’t count.”

“Why not?”

Hermione scrunches her nose. “You try sitting Snape down to have a long conversation about your feelings and Sirius and let me know how that goes.” She grabs her bag and slings it over her shoulder. “When you’re ready to talk to your real friends, then let me know.”

As soon as the door swings shut behind Hermione, Darcy growls and throws an empty flask at it. It crashes and falls to the ground, shattered into a million tiny pieces.

* * *

Darcy takes dinner in her office, unwilling to sit beside Slughorn and listen to him blabber. She doesn’t know how much she can take of that before she completely explodes. She knows Dumbledore had asked her to charm him, to allow him to collect her, but he’s so . . . _annoying_.

Her scales and cauldron she keeps in the classroom, to save her the trouble of transporting everything from her office to the classroom everyday. Her ingredients, however, she keeps in the office, locked away so no one can steal anything. Some of her books she moves from her living rooms to the empty and dusty shelves in the office, along with some pictures (not ones that have Sirius or Gemma in them, of course). She puts out some pictures of herself and Harry, of she and Emily. She wants her office to feel cozy, like Lupin’s had felt whenever she’d visited.

Her fireplace isn’t as big as Lupin’s was, but the window against the back wall is far bigger, giving her a fantastic view of the grounds and surrounding mountains, the peaks already capped with snow despite it hardly being September. The grounds of Hogwarts, however, are still as lush and green as they’re likely ever going to be, colorful wildflowers growing among the grass. So far north, the sun sets much sooner than it does at Privet Drive, but Darcy doesn’t quite mind. It makes the tops of the trees look gold, and the surface of the lake sparkle a magnificent malady of reds and oranges and pinks when the sun hits it just right.

Looking out of the window at the grounds, Darcy can only marvel at the beauty of Hogwarts, the ancient castle that stands proud among the mountains, towering above the tiny village of Hogsmeade. It makes her sick to think that while she’s enjoying the comforts Hogwarts has to offer, Lupin is likely having the worst time of his life, among his equals, as he would say. Darcy privately disagrees. She knows Lupin is a good man, and not at all someone like Greyback. Someone who would purposefully hurt others, who would bite others.

She’s still looking out of the window when there’s a knock on her office door. “It’s open,” she calls, turning only when she hears the door creak slowly.

Dumbledore is standing there, letting himself in and looking around at her progress. He pauses in front of the shelves, long and crooked fingers brushing over the spines of her books, examining the photographs she’s put out. He uses his right hand, for his left is still badly blackened.

“Sir, may I ask you something?”

He catches her looking at his hand and smiles. “If you’re going to ask me how my hand got like this . . .” He holds it up in front of his face, his sleeve falling down to reveal the entire thing. It’s grotesque, she thinks, shriveled and black. “Then I would rather not say just yet.”

Slightly disheartened, Darcy nods all the same, pulling herself away from the window. “Would you like to come in and have a drink?”

“That would be most gracious,” Dumbledore says. He follows her into her rooms, where she lights a fire and takes out a bottle of wine. Darcy pours them both a glass and they sit on the large sofa, at opposite ends, as if the distance is her shield between them should he say something hurtful. He drinks and smacks his lips. “You certainly have a knack for teaching, Darcy. You continue to impress me further every year.”

Darcy blushes. “You’re only being kind.”

He chuckles. “Horace agrees. He was most impressed by your lesson today.” Up close, Dumbledore looks the same man she’d seen at Privet Drive. He is weary and exhausted, his eyes heavy and shoulders slumped. Darcy wonders if it’s the old age catching up to him, or something more sinister that is weighing on him. “He also said you were a very sweet girl when you wanted to be, but could be slightly . . . abrasive. I confess, that did make me laugh, as ‘abrasive’ is a word I have not yet heard to describe you.”

_Abrasive!_ she thinks, scoffing mentally. How could Slughorn think her abrasive when he was the one prattling on and on about people Darcy doesn’t even care about? Maybe if he had something interesting to say, listening wouldn’t be such a chore to her. Something about this must show on her face, for Dumbledore gives her a knowing look, almost too sympathetic.

“I told Horace that it took you a year of working within close confines with Professor Snape to warm up to him, and expressed my hope that it will not take you as long with Horace.” Dumbledore sips at his wine again, the red staining his wiry, white mustache. “I know you are reluctant to like him, and I understand why. But Horace is not a malicious man, only a fool, just like your old friend, Ludo.”

“I’d rather be with Ludo than Professor Slughorn,” Darcy admits, feeling childish saying it. Her cheeks sting with embarrassment, tears welling in her eyes. She doesn’t want to cry on her first day, but the prospect of being with Slughorn is lonely and near unbearable. She fusses with the coin in her pocket, hoping it will burn hot and bring her some small comfort. “Are you sure I can’t be with Professor Snape, sir? I don’t have to teach. I can just sit there and look pretty, I suppose, as long as I’m with him.”

Dumbledore almost looks as if he seriously considers it at first, but Darcy knows what the answer is going to be. “It is very important to me that you be with Professor Slughorn this year, and this Saturday, when I have my first private lesson with Harry, you will begin to understand why.” He smiles politely, kindly, surveying her with bright blue eyes.

Darcy sighs. She feels she’s had this same conversation with Dumbledore a hundred times, and he’s been so patient with her each and every time. Every time she’s wanted to go home, to leave Hogwarts for a better (is it better?) life, Dumbledore has been here to listen to her grievances and always patiently insist she stay. “I want to be here, Professor. It’s just . . .” She thinks of number twelve, Grimmauld Place—abandoned and dusty, Kreacher lurking around the dark halls. She thinks of Lupin’s cottage, empty, one of her favorite places in the world. She almost bursts for a moment, several different emotions overwhelming her. “I’ve got a lot on my mind right now. Could I ask another question?”

“Of course.”

“What makes Patronus’ change, sir?” Darcy asks, looking closely at her fingernails, hoping that the question seems rather casual. “Just out of curiosity.”

Perhaps Dumbledore already knows why she’s asking. She can almost see it in his eyes when she chances a glance into them. “Patronuses are—some may argue—the deepest parts of ourselves. If something in ourselves changes . . . say, by a traumatic event or even some form of self-discovery, a Patronus may change.” He leans forward slightly. “If I may be so bold, why do you ask?”

Darcy hesitates for a moment, considering whether or not to tell him the truth. “My parents’ Patronuses . . . a stag and a doe. Harry’s, a stag. Mine, a doe. And Tonks’ . . . a werewolf.”

“Curious.” There's a hint of amusement in Dumbledore’s voice that makes anger surge through Darcy’s veins. “Just because your Patronus has not changed does not mean you love Remus any less than she does. It may mean that it’s a different kind of love. Deep in Nymphadora’s heart, she longs for him. But deep in your heart, what do you long for?”

The words come far too easily to her. “A family,” Darcy confesses.

“A doe Patronus could resemble Lily, the family you never had. Or it could be the counterpart of Harry’s stag, resembling your devotion and loyalty to him. Or it could mean something else entirely, and the doe is only a coincidence. Perhaps you have an understanding of yourself that you didn’t realize you had.”

Darcy nods, feeling jittery. She makes sure her door is locked, drains the rest of her wine glass, feeling the warmth wash all the way down her gullet, burning her chest, sitting in her stomach. It gives her strength, courage, the courage to speak her mind and get everything out that she’s been holding in for years. Things that she hasn’t spoken to Harry about, things that Snape wouldn’t want to listen to, things that she feels would annoy or hurt Lupin. Everything from the past five years or so comes back to haunt her in full force. But first, the feeling of needing to apologize once more hits her like a train.

“I’m so sorry, Professor Dumbledore.” Darcy gets to her feet, emotion coursing through her. She runs her hands through her dark red hair, grabbing fistfuls of it and pacing before the fire. “I never meant for things to go so far . . . I never thought I’d ever do something like that.” She stops pacing for a moment, frowning. “Actually, I am probably _exactly_ the kind of person to do something like that, aren’t I?”

“What happened has happened, and it is far too late to change the past. All that matters now is that you are happy.” Dumbledore sighs. “Tell me, Darcy.”

She resumes her pacing, tears burning her eyes. “I don’t know who I am,” she admits softly, and the confession nearly breaks her. “Everything I dreamed of is unattainable now, and I can’t see a future. I mean, I can’t stay here forever, but what else am I supposed to do? And all I remember about who I was is that . . . it can’t have been who I really was because Harry wasn’t here. And after Harry got here, it’s like all I knew was fear. I mean—”

Dumbledore raises his eyebrows, watching her move quickly back and forth in front of him. He refills her wine glass, and Darcy reaches for it instinctively, taking a long drink and exhaling loudly.

“It’s not like I don’t have any reason to be afraid,” Darcy continues, her words spilling out of her like vomit. “I mean, anyone would be scared if they’ve seen what I’ve seen. And I’m not just talking about my mum or anything, but like, Voldemort aside, the most frightened I’ve ever been was standing in front of Aragog, and . . . oh _God_ , they were going to eat us. I was so scared, and I know that I was attacked by a werewolf, but I feel like that was probably more shock than anything. I mean, if I had the choice, I think I’d rather face a werewolf again before a massive nest of spiders—and they were big, like, real big, you know?”

Darcy runs a hand down her face, trying to shake the image of Aragog’s milky white, blind eyes out of her mind’s eye. The feeling of spiders crawling all over her skin sets her on edge. She brushes the back of her neck off without really thinking, surprised that no spiders fall to the ground.

Still staring at the carpet where the spiders would have been had there actually been some crawling on her, Darcy worries her bottom lip between her teeth. “I miss Sirius the most,” she cries, letting the tears fall finally. “I loved him so much and it wasn’t fair. He was good, and he loved me, and . . . it should have been me. He deserved so much more, so much better.” Darcy looks up at Dumbledore, ashamed and humiliated. “My life is over. Everything is what could have been instead of what could be. And Harry . . . my boy, I . . . if I could just have a few more years, I’d be happy. Just a few more years with him . . .”

Dumbledore is quiet, stroking his beard, deep in thought. His eyes don’t leave Darcy’s face.

“I’m trying, sir,” she rasps. “I am, but I’m lonely and I’m so, so . . . tired.” Darcy wipes angrily at her tears, sniffling. “I want to sleep for a hundred years, and I’ll wake up and it’ll all have been a bad dream. I’ll wake up a young girl again, and we live in a nice house with mum and dad, and there’s no magic and no Voldemort, and we sit around the television in the evenings and cook breakfast together and take holidays to the coast. And none of this will have ever been real.”

Dumbledore takes a long time to answer. By this time, Darcy has seated herself on an armchair, curled up with her legs tucked underneath her, arms wrapped around herself. The honesty with which she’s spoken makes her blush, but it’s all the truth, and she doesn’t want to take it back. It feels good to have gotten it all off her chest, even if it was said to Dumbledore. She’s almost afraid of his answer, likely some stupid riddle she’ll have to figure out, that will haunt her for nights until she can settle on some stupid meaning.

“I regret that life has been difficult for you, and believe me, Darcy, you have my sincerest sympathies.” Dumbledore steeples his fingers together, elbows on his knees. Darcy wants to spit something back at him (I don’t want your fucking sympathies), but she holds her tongue. “But I have never once doubted your ability to survive. You survived Lord Voldemort, you survived a loveless household, survived against a basilisk and spiders, against a werewolf and the battle at the Department of Mysteries. I would not start doubting you now. I intend for you and Harry to survive this last hurdle—fulfilling the prophecy that Harry is destined to fulfill. Darcy, you have my word, that I will do whatever I can to aid him in this plight.”

(empty promises)

Darcy closes her eyes and covers her face with her hands.

(and either must die at the hand of the other)

Sixteen. Harry’s only a boy, and yet . . . he had been eleven when he’d met Voldemort on the back of Quirrell's head.

(for neither can live)

He had been twelve when he’d entered the Chamber of Secrets. Twelve, where she’d been sixteen and afraid.

(while the other survives)

She buries her face in her hands and cries. “I’ve spent my whole life keeping Harry safe, or trying to.” Darcy exhales loudly. “Only to find out that his future has already been determined by some stupid prophecy.”

Dumbledore gets to his feet, patting Darcy on the shoulder. “I think, in time, you will come to find that you are not entirely correct with that assumption.”

And on that ominous note, he leaves.

* * *

It’s four days until Darcy finds the courage to ask.

Harry continues to do suspiciously well in Potions, and Darcy makes sure to check his cauldron at the very end of each lesson, just to see for herself. She watches him as much as she can before he catches her, his nose buried in his Potions book. In all of his years at Hogwarts, Harry has never been a master potioneer, never half as good as Hermione. His inability to follow directions exactly had always meant his potions were half-complete or something completely different from what Snape had assigned.

But both of them being stubborn as bulls, Darcy doesn’t ask. Harry doesn’t seem ready to speak with her yet, and she’s sure he’s waiting for her to approach first, but she doesn’t want to. Not yet. That would mean defeat, and she desperately wants Harry to be the one to first approach her. To come crawling back to her with genuine apologies (I’m sorry that I didn’t listen to you, I’m sorry that I took advantage of what you’ve done for me, I’m appreciate you being a second mother to me), to have finally realized that her mothering is not overbearing, but necessary for her.

Neither Ron nor Hermione will provide her answers, either. When Darcy corners Ron after Potions on Thursday and demands answers to why Harry has suddenly become a genius in Potions, his mouth forms a tight line, his ears turns bright red, and he dashes off after wriggling out of Darcy’s grip. Sure that Hermione will hold answers for her, Darcy does the same with her. Hermione looks ready to burst, but only starts to cry after confessing she can smell wine on Darcy’s breath and Darcy’s fingers dig painfully into her shoulders. Horrified with herself, Darcy releases Hermione and lets her go without having to answer the question.

(there’s a darkness in you)

Darcy watches Hermione nearly run down the corridor, and Darcy’s arms tingle, tiny pins pricking the surface of her skin, just like in her nightmares. She curls her hands into fists, a wave of shame washes over her.

(a meanness)

A feeling of dread near overwhelms her. _Is this who I am?_

(you want people to hurt)

_No, she thinks, no I don’t._

There is only one person, it seems, who is delighted by Harry’s unlocked potential—Professor Slughorn. He takes great pleasure in comparing Harry’s potioneering abilities to Darcy’s, which—not that she wants to be rude—is slightly offensive to her. She knows that she’s better than most students—she always had been in classes, and she’d taken pride in her potion-making because it was another way she was similar to Lily. Slughorn likes to use the excuse that Harry simply works better with a different teacher, but Darcy isn’t so sure. Snape may have been cruel, but he has always been a decent—even good—teacher who knew what he was talking about. If Harry didn’t do well with Snape, Darcy is sure he wouldn’t suddenly become the best in class just because Snape is no longer his teacher.

Friday, when her classes end early for the day, Darcy hurries to Snape’s office before her Gryffindor courage fails her. Part of Darcy privately resents the fact that Snape has Lupin’s old office, but at least it’s familiar and comforting, even if the decorations are somewhat frightening. She doesn’t like thinking of Snape sleeping in the bed where she and Lupin had first made love, doesn’t like thinking of Snape sitting on the sofa where they’d held hands and smiled at each other and teased each other with little, chaste kisses once in a blue moon—on the tip of her nose, on his cheek, on her chin, everywhere but on each other’s lips. They’d made love once on the sofa, too, drunk and sweaty and in love with no reservations. Darcy’s sure Snape doesn’t know that, and she never intends to tell him, but the thought of him anywhere in that room makes her anxious, as if they’ve left behind traces of themselves that Snape may one day find, leading him to his own conclusions.

Darcy peeks into the classroom, the door slightly ajar. She feels stupid—she hadn’t given thought to Snape’s classes, only her own. The students don’t notice her in the threshold, too busy hunched over parchment, taking notes. A fifth-year class made up of Hufflepuffs and Slytherins. As Snape explains Shield Charms to them, he catches her eye, beckoning her forward and making her blush as everyone turns their heads to see who Snape is looking at.

“And now, Miss Potter will help me demonstrate,” he announces to the class. When Darcy doesn’t walk as quickly as he’d like, he beckons again. “Come on, Darcy, I haven’t got all day.”

She smiles weakly, stepping up to the front of the classroom, feeling very much one of his students again without her teacher’s robes on. Fumbling in the hidden and rather shallow pocket of her skirt, Darcy withdraws her wand with hesitation.

“Now, either you can attempt to hex me—”

“I’m not going to hex you,” Darcy interrupts incredulously, making the classroom chuckle as one. “Why would you ask that of me?”

“I said you can attempt to hex me,” he finishes, looking almost amused by her reaction. “Or, if you’re confident enough, I’ll attempt to hex you.”

“No,” Darcy says quickly, and Snape’s mouth twitches. “No, I’ll—I’ll hex you.”

The students sit up a little straighter in their seats, placing quiet bets. Snape ignores them all, but Darcy gives a few students a polite curtsey when they shout their encouragement. She and Snape stand a few feet apart, wands held out and pointed at each other. Darcy tries hard to avoid Snape’s eyes, not wanting him to be able to predict the spell she’s going to use. Without wasting another second, Darcy snaps her wrist, sending a jet of blue light right at Snape, her heart leaping in her throat at the idea of knocking him right on his behind. But Snape brings his right arm up and blocks it silently; the spell rebounds and hits her instead, hitting her full in the face so hard, it feels as if her nose has broken. She stumbles backwards, tripping over her own two feet and crashing to the ground, holding a hand up to her freshly bleeding nose.

Above the disappointed mutterings of the students, Snape dismisses the class, nearly pushing the last stragglers out of the door before slamming it shut and moving back over to Darcy. He takes her elbow gently, picking up her wand before helping her to her feet. Darcy blushes furiously, wiping the blood off with the back of her hand and pocketing her wand again.

“Enjoyed that, didn’t you?” Darcy asks with the ghost of a smile as Snape presses a handkerchief to her nose.

“I gave you the choice to be the one to defend yourself,” Snape tells her.

“I would have just stopped it,” she protests. “I wouldn’t have sent it right back at you.”

“Perhaps the Charm was . . . stronger than I’d intended.”

“I’m sure you’re only saying that.” Darcy touches her cheekbones, the skin closer to the bridge of her nose feeling bruised. “Is it bad?”

“A little bruised.” He touches the bridge of her nose and she yelps, slapping his hand away.

Darcy turns, looking over her shoulder into a nearby mirror hanging on the wall. She has two black eyes, one worse than the other. She gives Snape a look that tells him exactly how she feels about this. “A _little_?” she sighs. Maybe a few months ago, or even a few weeks ago, this would have made her beyond angry. Now, however, Darcy doesn’t know that she expected anything different when she first walked in the classroom. “You’re telling me you don’t have a single potion to fix this?”

“Don’t you? I’m not Potions Master anymore.”

“Nor am I. Only his apprentice.” Darcy gives Snape his bloody handkerchief back. He grabs it by the corner, looking disgusted. “Can we go into your office? I’ve got to ask you something important.”

Equipped with savage bruising on her face, a physical representation of her shame (I deserve this), Darcy follows Snape into his office, closing the door behind her. She wets her lips, tastes the dried and semi-fresh blood on her lips, and promptly cringes. Licking the pad of her thumb, she works on removing the blood from the sensitive skin between her nose and upper lip.

“What is this important question of yours? I’m a busy man.” Snape sits down at his desk—Lupin’s old desk—and Darcy sits in the empty seat across from him.

“Will you stop staring at my nose?” Darcy insists, and Snape has the grace to look slightly abashed, his black eyes flicking slightly upwards to look her in the eyes. “I need you to make me Liquid Luck. Felix Felicis.”

Snape looks away, rubbing his temples, exasperated. “Is it for class?”

The singular beat before Darcy answers gives it away, and she knows it. “Yes,” she lies.

He looks up at her, wary. “Why are you lying to me, Darcy?”

Her heart skips a beat. She hadn’t thought Snape would catch her in a lie so quickly, but maybe she should have known that would happen all along. Snape has always been able to catch her in a lie. “Because I don’t want to tell you the truth,” she says, and it is the absolute truth. How is she supposed to tell Snape why she really wants it? “You’ll laugh at me.”

He scowls for a moment before the anger is gone from his face, replaced by an expression of forced patience. “I won’t laugh at you. Just tell me.”

“I don’t want to. Will you make it or not?”

Snape scoffs. “Will I make you Felix Felicis after you lied about the reason you need it? Absolutely not. What are you plotting?”

“Then I’ll make it, and you can help me.”

“No.”

Darcy realizes now how stupid this is. Why had she come to Professor Snape, of all people? Surely Professor Slughorn would have taken pity on her, would have brewed some because of the fact that she’s Darcy Potter, sister to Harry Potter, the Chosen One . . . the new best potioneer in sixth year. But she trusts Snape’s potion-making completely, and trusts his person far more than she trusts Slughorn. Of course she hadn’t planned on Snape just doing what she asked without question, but she’d hoped he wouldn’t question her too much. He should know that she isn’t planning on using it for anything illegal . . . it’s not like she has any exams coming up, and she doesn’t play Quidditch or gamble.

“Can you make it or will I have to find some recipe book in the library?”

Snape doesn’t look angry, which takes her by surprise. He looks . . . sad, almost, like he knows she wants it for some outrageous reason. “Why do you want Liquid Luck, Darcy?”

“You’re going to laugh at me.”

“No, I’m not.”

“It’s embarrassing.” Darcy wants to run away, but she thinks she’s getting closer to a positive answer. Snape’s face has softened considerably, and she knows that whenever he does that, all she has to do is give him her saddest face, her biggest eyes. For good measure, she pouts.

“Stop that,” Snape says quickly. “Stop doing that.”

“Why?” she asks, too innocently.

“I’m not going to brew any potion for you unless you tell me what you need it for—pouting or no.”

“You blacked both of my eyes and made my nose bleed just to boost your ego in front of your students. Doesn’t that get me something?”

Snape frowns, looking slightly uncomfortable, fidgeting in his chair as his eyes sweep over Darcy’s face. “All right. Ask of me anything, and if it is in my power to do it, it will be done. But not this.”

She thinks for a moment, but she can’t think of anything that she wants to ask of him. The only thing she wants that he can provide her is Liquid Luck. “Please, Professor Snape. Help me brew Liquid Luck and I swear, I’ll never ask for anything ever again.”

“Just tell me why you want the goddamned potion so much, Darcy. I don’t have time to run around in circles with you.”

Darcy doesn’t mean to say it. The words just tumble out of her in humiliation and frustration and anger. “I want to have a baby.” Her cheeks burn bright red.

Snape looks at her for a long time, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms over his chest. “I’m not following. Why do you need Liquid Luck for that? Don’t they have . . . calendars for that, or . . . ?” He scrunches his nose as if the prospect absolutely disgusts him.

She pauses, raising her eyebrows. “I’m intrigued that you even know that. But . . .” Darcy purses her lips, ashamed of herself, even if the issue isn’t her fault. “You know why I need Liquid Luck.”

“Ah.” Snape pushes himself to his feet, walks over to a shelf where he collects a book bound by faded leather, returns to the desk and flips through the pages until he reaches what he’s looking for. FELIX FELICIS is written in golden lettering at the very top, followed by a complicated recipe and several warnings. “I think you are misunderstanding the concept and the effects of Felix Felicis.”

“I know what it does,” Darcy snaps. “Professor Slughorn said the perfect day—”

“If Lupin drank an entire vat of Liquid Luck on the full moon, he would still transform. Do you understand? This potion doesn’t change anything about you, only makes you adapt easily to the surrounding circumstances, whatever they may be.” Snape heaves a great sigh and closes the book. “Besides, it’s a very risky potion to make, and it takes six months to brew.”

“But if there’s a chance—”

“There’s not. It won’t change that.”

It feels as if someone has grabbed her heart tight with a cold hand, squeezing until all the life has been squeezed out of her. Darcy can’t remember the last time she’s ever felt so defeated, and thinks it may have been the night she realized something was wrong with her. “Okay,” she says hoarsely, forcing herself to stand up, a lump forming in her throat.

Snape stands with her, his eyebrows furrowed. “That’s it?”

“What?” Darcy asks, heart throbbing against her ribcage.

“You’re just going to . . . leave?” Snape looks her up and down, as if not quite able to see her right. “You’re one of the most stubborn girls I’ve ever met, and you’re just going to leave without even arguing, without a single tear?”

Darcy slumps her shoulders, laughing bitterly. “What do you want me to say?”

Snape doesn’t give answer to that. “Madam Pomfrey has some of Smythe’s paste. She can fix the bruising. I’m sorry.”

“I’m sure you are, sir.”

“Hey,” Snape calls to her back. Darcy turns around, sighing very heavily and dramatically. “If I find out you had anything to do with getting your brother out of detention tomorrow night—”

“I didn’t do anything,” Darcy retorts. “He has a meeting with Dumbledore. And I heard he’s still doing detention, just on a different night. You’re really adamant about that, aren’t you?”

“If someone misbehaves, then they ought to be punished.”

“Yes, because giving you cheek is such an awful crime. Just drop the detention already, would you?”

Snape’s mouth tightens. “I told you to ask of me anything. What would you have of me? And don’t ask me about the detention.”

Darcy shakes her head. “Nothing. I don’t need anything from you.”

* * *

Darcy is clacking away on her typewriter, rewriting some of her lesson plans when there’s a knock on her door. While her typing hasn’t got much faster, it’s better than it was the first time she tried using a typewriter, and it’s less annoying now that she’s getting a feel for where each letter is. It’s nearing ten o’clock when she checks her watch. “It’s open!” she calls, finishing the sentence she’s on and pulling the paper out to read it over.

Looking over her shoulder, she’s surprised to see Harry pulling off the Invisibility Cloak and tossing it over the back of an armchair. Instead of seating himself as far away from her as possible, as she suspected he might, Harry sits beside her on the sofa. He’s still fully dressed and slightly flustered, his hair disheveled (although that’s normal for Harry) and his lightning bolt scar prominent on his white forehead. It’s then that she remembers why he’s here—his first lesson with Dumbledore was tonight, and she’s sure this is the first place he’s come to afterwards, for there’s still wonder in his bright green eyes, the firelight dancing on the lenses of his glasses.

“How did it go?” she asks casually, pouring herself another glass of wine. Her head is already swimming slightly, but Harry’s visit and the prospect of hearing the details of the lesson has immediately sobered her up a bit.

Harry sighs. “Listen, Darcy, what I said that night—”

“Don’t worry about it, all right?” Darcy interrupts quickly, not wanting to bring it back up again. He’s hardly spoken to her all week, if at all. “I get it. I was overbearing and I need to take a few steps back.”

“It’s not that I don’t appreciate everything you do for me,” he adds, frowning. “It’s just . . . ever since June—” Darcy knows that he means ‘ever since Sirius died’, but he won’t say it. “—you’ve become, like . . . I’m not a baby anymore, and I just want you to know that.”

“I know you’re not. I’m sorry. I got carried away, is all.” Darcy sips at her wine, looking at her brother over the lip of her glass. “How did the lesson go? What did you learn?”

“He took me into the Pensieve,” Harry begins, pulling his feet up and bringing his knobbly knees to his chest. “It wasn’t Dumbledore’s memory, but this bloke’s from the Ministry—Ogden.”

Darcy chews her bottom lip, narrowing her eyes as she looks into the fact that so resembles their father—the face that resembles her own. “The name doesn’t ring any bells as far as Ministry workers.”

“It was a long time ago. He was Head of the Magical Law Enforcement Squad,” he explains patiently, but seemingly bursting to get all of this information out. “He went to this house, but it was more of a . . . shack, and the people there spoke Parseltongue. I could understand them, but Ogden couldn’t. The son, Morfin Gaunt . . . I think there was something wrong with him. I mean, he was definitely inbred.”

“That’s disgusting,” Darcy scoffs, nearly choking on her wine at the thought. “Why was Ogden there?”

“Morfin had attacked a Muggle, and Ogden was only delivering his summons to be tried.” Harry looks away in the fire, working his jaw restlessly as he thinks. “They were purebloods, the Gaunts, and prejudiced. Marvolo, the father, claimed that they were the last living descendants of Salazar Slytherin’s, they even had some things of his—”

“Marvolo?” Darcy’s heart rate quickens. The name is all too familiar to her, and she can remember vividly kneeling upon the cold and damp floor of the Chamber of Secrets, holding tight to Ginny’s marble-like hand, watching with horror as Tom Marvolo Riddle had revealed his true self to them all. “Was he related to Voldemort?”

“Marvolo was his grandfather,” Harry continues, waving an impatient hand at her. “Let me finish, would you?” He waits for Darcy to nod her consent, and she sits back against the arm of the sofa, one of her long legs stretched out in front of her, swirling the glass of wine in her hand. “So Marvolo had Morfin, both Muggle-haters, and then the daughter, Merope—Voldemort’s mother—they hated her, they were so cruel to her.”

Darcy can’t help her curiosity. “What did she look like?”

Harry shifts uncomfortably. “She was . . . well, she wasn’t good looking.” He shrugs. “I saw his father, too. Voldemort’s father. He rode by the house as Ogden was there—Tom Riddle Sr., and Merope was in love with him, I think. That’s why Morfin hexed him, because Merope was looking at him.”

She drinks deep from her glass, thinking hard. Part of her feels slightly angry that she hadn’t been invited into the memory with Harry—after all, it’s nothing she can’t handle. And yet, part of her is privately glad she hadn’t gone. Her last experiences with a Pensieve have not been particularly pleasant, and she’s sure that seeing a bunch of inbred Pureblood maniacs wouldn’t do wonders for her.

“The memory ended then. Dumbledore said Morfin and Marvolo went to Azkaban then, and Dumbledore also reckons that Merope used a love potion on Tom Riddle, because they ended up married.” Harry seems to be expecting some huge reaction from her, looking disappointed when Darcy doesn’t immediately cause an uproar. “Anyway, so when Merope got pregnant, Tom Riddle left her—”

“Why? Didn’t she continue using a love potion?”

“Dumbledore thinks that, by then, Merope thought he’d stick around. But he didn’t—he up and left and told everyone that he’d been like, cursed or something, but no one believed him, of course, and he didn’t even care about his son. He never even went back to check on him, or see him, or anything.”

Darcy frowns. “This seems like a lot of guesswork on Dumbledore’s part, doesn’t it?”

Harry hesitates. When next he speaks, it’s very carefully. “When has Dumbledore ever led us astray?”

She chuckles mirthlessly. “That’s a loaded question. But I suppose . . . he probably knows a lot more about Voldemort than we do. Why did he show you this, anyway?”

“He said it had something to do with the prophecy.”

“Really?” Darcy asks, an eyebrow cocked. “It’s important for you to learn about Voldemort’s . . . humble beginnings?”

“Dumbledore said it was, but we didn’t really have time to talk about the prophecy, but I did notice something as I was leaving.” Harry sits up a little straighter, lowering his legs from his chest. “In the memory, Marvolo had shown Ogden a ring that was supposedly Salazar Slytherin’s. It wasn’t the only treasure they had—Merope was wearing a locket, too. But the ring . . . Dumbledore had the ring. It was sitting on the table, and I think it had something to do with his hand.”

Darcy finishes her wine, debating whether or not to pour herself another glass. “So the ring must be cursed to do that kind of damage to his hand.”

“But why does he have it?” Harry asks eagerly. “Why did he go back for it? Why did he need it? Why would he have touched it, or put it on?”

“I don’t know. Have you told Ron and Hermione yet? Maybe they have some guesses.”

“No, I haven’t been back to the common room yet. I stopped here first,” he replies, looking thoughtful, and somehow older than Darcy remembers. Everyday seems to age him at least a year, or maybe it’s the uneven shadow on his face that he has yet to care for. “Dumbledore thinks it’s not a good idea for too many people to know. He doesn’t want a lot of people knowing about Voldemort’s secrets.”

“But you can tell Ron and Hermione, can’t you?”

“Yes.”

The heavy silence after that single word gives Darcy the answer to the question she hadn’t even asked. Her heart sinks, and somehow, the disappointment is worse than the bubbling anger. “He doesn’t want me telling Remus any of this, does he?”

Harry immediately jumps to the defensive. “Even if you tell Lupin and he swears not to tell anyone else, do you really think he’d keep information about Voldemort from the Order?”

“Why wouldn’t Dumbledore want the Order to know?” Darcy asks, outraged. “They’re the perfect people to tell! Their entire aim is to defeat Voldemort, so why would we hide important information from them?” When Harry opens his mouth to protest, Darcy talks over him. “You can tell Ron and Hermione, so why can’t I tell Remus? Or Gemma? Or Emily?”

“You know why you can’t tell Gemma.”

“That doesn’t change my question. Remus could help—”

“It’s not my rule! I didn’t say it, Dumbledore did!”

They look at each other for a moment. “It’s not fair,” Darcy rasps, tears burning her eyes. “It’s like Dumbledore’s only goal is to alienate me from everyone, especially you, since he doesn’t feel I’m necessary to your lessons. I mean . . . no offense, but what’s so special about that memory that I wasn’t allowed to watch it? It’s not like I was doing anything.”

“Probably the same reason he didn’t ask Ron and Hermione to jump in the Pensieve with us—”

“I’m not Ron or Hermione,” Darcy says flatly, and her angers grows. To think that Dumbledore may equate her with two sixteen-year-old kids that are friends with Harry Potter is anger she’s never quite experienced. “I’m Darcy Potter. I’m your sister. And if Dumbledore refuses to recognize that we’re in this together, until the end, then I think there has been a huge misunderstanding as to what is expected from him.”

Harry mouths wordlessly for a moment, struggling to grasp what’s happening. “Darcy, what are you saying?”

Darcy gives him a dangerous look. She isn’t sure if it’s the wine flowing through her veins, or if it’s something more sinister. She remembers the way her fingertips had dug into Hermione’s shoulders until she cried. The way her arm had tingles when she’d made the decision to torture Bellatrix. She hates Dumbledore, despite all the times he’d come to check in on her, to make sure that she was doing all right, despite his good intentions. She hates him for allowing terrible things to happen—his delusion that the ends justify the means. And at the same time, saying so would hurt Harry, because Darcy knows that Harry reveres him, sees him as something of a hero, of a father figure. But she doesn’t care—can’t Harry see what Dumbledore has done and is doing to her?

_And Snape?_

Prepared to say something nasty about Dumbledore, Darcy stops suddenly before the words make their way out of her mouth. Hasn’t she done the same thing? She’s turned a blind eye to Snape’s mistreatment of Harry and his friends simply because he could sometimes be good to her? Surely Harry knows this . . . and surely he’d say something. Harry’s never been keen on Darcy’s relationship with Snape and has, in the past, been vocal about it. But she doesn’t think that’s fair. Dumbledore had set her up with Snape, had made it so Snape was the one consistent person in her life. Who else was she supposed to turn to while Dumbledore allowed Umbridge to torture her? While Dumbledore forced Harry to participate in the Triwizard Tournament? While Dumbledore kept Darcy inside number twelve, Grimmauld Place?

(you are at risk of absconding)

The words had shocked her when Dumbledore had first said them.

(you are reckless and impulsive)

“He doesn’t trust me,” she whispers, more to herself than to Harry. “He doesn’t know me and he doesn’t trust me.” Darcy’s mouth twitches, her head spins, her teeth clench almost painfully. Looking into Harry’s eyes, she tells him, “I’m done.”

Harry gives her a nervous look. “Done with what, Darcy?”

“I’m done letting people decide for me,” she answers, her tone cold and harsh. “I’m done being the person people want me to be. I’m done being told what to do.”

“Hang on, hang on,” Harry holds his hands out as Darcy gets to her feet, restless. “Let’s just talk about this real quick. I mean . . . maybe Dumbledore has something else planned for you, or maybe we could just talk to him. Darcy, come on, you can’t tell Lupin—”

“I won’t,” she snaps. “If I do, it’s likely Dumbledore’s just going to throw me to the wolves, yeah?”

Harry frowns, walking over to Darcy and touching her shoulders. She shakes him off. “He wouldn’t do that to you.”

Darcy stares at him incredulously. “He already has, or have you forgotten?” she hisses, hunching over slightly to put her face at a level with his. “He dumped me at Grimmauld Place after Fudge and Umbridge tried to have me arrested. I didn’t fall in line, so he left me there with absolutely no explanation, only the expectation that I’d stay there and never set foot outside. He did the same thing to Sirius.”

“Professor Dumbledore was under a lot of pressure—”

“So that excuses his behavior towards me?” Darcy asks, and she wishes her words weren’t so harsh. “Face it, Harry, Dumbledore doesn’t see me the same way he sees you. He’s _never_ seen me the way he sees you. Dumbledore has done terrible things that have hurt me, and his excuse has always been that it’s for you.”

“Darcy, you’ve been drinking,” Harry says, clearly shaken. “You wouldn’t be saying this if you weren’t drunk.”

“You’re right.” Darcy moves over to the table by the sofa, pouring the rest of the wine in the bottle into her glass and raising her eyebrows at Harry. “I wouldn’t be saying this if I wasn’t drunk, because I’m a good girl now who holds her tongue, isn’t that right?”

Harry looks at her as if seeing her for the first time. “Darcy, you’re scaring me.”

Instinctively, she softens. The last thing she wants is to frighten Harry with her talk of Dumbledore, but surely he’s old enough to hear it now. Maybe three years ago, Darcy would have just waited for him to leave, would have waited for Emily or Gemma or Lupin to be around so she could vent her feelings to them. But Harry is a man now, like it or not—he became a man that day in the Ministry of Magic when Sirius died, when he found out that his fate had been determined for him by a prophecy made by Sybill Trelawney.

Suddenly, Darcy’s brain is buzzing with ideas, ideas that she can’t wait to put in motion, to lay out on the table. But Harry is still looking at her with the same sort of fear and worry in his eyes, and Darcy doesn’t think him the proper person to share her ideas with.

“Go tell Ron and Hermione what you’ve seen tonight,” she says quickly, her tone a completely different one than she’d just been using. “Be quick and use your cloak. It’s past curfew.”

“But—Darcy, what’s going on?” Harry asks frantically, wriggling in her hold as she pushes him gently towards the door, his cloak thrown over her arm. “You aren’t going to leave Hogwarts, are you?”

“No, certainly not,” Darcy answers breathlessly. “No, I’m definitely staying, but . . .”

“Darcy, what are you planning? This isn’t funny.”

“You’ll see, little brother.” Darcy gives him a sweet smile as she opens the door that leads to her office and, through the office door, back into the corridors. “You’ll see.”

“I don’t like this.”

“There are lots of things that I don’t like,” Darcy shrugs, ruffling his hair and kissing his cheek. “Oh, and by the way—how the _fuck_ did you manage a perfect Draught of Living Death?”

Harry has the grace to blush. “Lucky break, I guess.”

“Yeah,” Darcy mutters as Harry rushes off without any further explanation. “Lucky break.”

In her pocket, the Knut grows hot.


	11. Chapter 11

“Oh, shit, that looks good. What is that, shepherd’s pie?”

“Yeah, you want some?”

Darcy dips her fork into Emily’s shepherd’s pie, bringing it to her mouth with a large helping of lamb, carrots, onion, mashed potato, and cheese. With her mouth still full of steaming pie, she groans. “Shit, that _is_ good.”

“What did you get stew for?” Emily scrunches her nose, peering into Darcy’s own bowl of brown liquid, complete with chunks of beef.

“It’s the only way I can get half-decent meat in this place. Otherwise it’s like eating leather. I swear, the meat used to be good here. It wasn’t like this sixth year.” Darcy shrugs. “Plus the dumplings are really good.”

“The meat has always been good, but you hadn’t been mauled by a werewolf sixth year,” Emily replies. “I think it’s affected you more than you let on.”

Darcy waves an impatient hand at her. “A tendency to eat my meat a little rarer. That’s nothing. Could have been a lot worse.”

“You know, I think the best food I’ve ever had was here,” Emily muses, sighing contently and looking down at her pie. “I was really hungover all that day, and Madam Rosmerta had just hired that new cook boy, remember him? He made the best bangers and mash.”

“That cook boy got fired three days later for stealing guests valuables from their rooms, don’t you remember?” Darcy laughs when Emily shrugs and shakes her head, grinning toothily. “Best food I ever had was that scotch egg I got when your dad took us to that corner shop for his cigarettes. God, we must have been . . . what, fourteen? Thirteen?”

“Fucking hell . . . a scotch egg . . . if you wanted one so badly, I would have had dad make you one.” Emily eats a few bites of her pie, still chortling. “Scotch egg doesn’t sound so bad right now. With beer, it would be even better.”

“How is your dad?” Darcy asks casually.

“Doing well. He just closed a sale on Friday. He mentioned that you’d have liked the house.”

“That’s sweet of him.” Darcy pauses, the sting of her last conversation with Emily’s father still present. “Is he seeing anyone?”

“No,” Emily frowns. “He still misses mum a lot. Have you heard anything from Remus?”

“I know he’s alive, and that’s as much message as I’m like to get.” She lifts her eyes from her food to Emily, oblivious to Darcy anxiety. “Something funny happened the day I got here.”

“Why am I not surprised?” Emily smiles again, exasperated. “Tonks told me about what happened with Harry. What a rotten, good for nothing—”

“Tonks’ Patronus is a werewolf.”

Emily’s reaction is quick, stunned disbelief, clearly hearing this for the first time. “No shit.”

“Come on, Emily. What gives? Do I need to be worried?”

“No,” Emily says with a soft laugh. “Listen, Darcy, as hard as it may be for me to believe, you’re a fool if you go through life thinking that no one else will want Remus. Do you think he doesn’t worry every single day of his life about you?”

“Shut up. I’m so in love with him. I’d never entertain the idea of anyone else while I’ve got him.”

Darcy mislikes the way Emily looks at her with such a skeptical and amused look. “You may be insanely, intensely, grossly in love with Remus, but don’t play coy. You’re in love with Snape.”

Goosebumps erupt all over Darcy’s body, and she suddenly feels very warm around the collar. Suddenly, she feels that she could be a hundred times drunker. “I’m not in love with Snape, and don’t ever say that again.”

“Are you fucking serious?” Emily asks in a low voice. Darcy can tell she’s fighting a smile. “The two of you are disgustingly soft with each other. Do you have any idea what it’s like having to listen to the two of you talk to each other? It’s like having to listen to the two of you make love to each other.”

Darcy kicks Emily’s shin hard below the table. She swears loudly, drawing some attention from the table beside them. Emily smiles sweetly at them before turning back to Darcy with a pained expression.

“Shut the _fuck_ up,” Darcy hisses through her teeth. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

They’re interrupted by the clicking of sharp heels on the ground, and Madam Rosmerta comes into view, holding two large mugs and smiling. Though she’s been here since Darcy was a third-year, and long before that, the barmaid doesn’t look to have aged—or if she has, she’s aged very well. A curvy body that makes Darcy envious—a woman’s body instead of whatever sorry thing Darcy has been gifted, and curly hair that bounces with every step, hair that has life to it.

“Happy birthday, Potter. This round is on the house.”

“Thanks.” Darcy smiles as the two cups of mead are set on the table. She and Emily reach greedily at the tankards at the same time as Madam Rosmerta pats Darcy on the shoulder. After taking a long drink, Darcy wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. “Is that what Tonks tells you in hopes that you’ll help her win over Remus? It’s all right because I’m in love with Snape?”

“She doesn’t tell me anything to do with Remus, likely because she knows you’re my best friend.” Emily pats her mouth with her napkin. “Besides, I’m not so petty that I’d try to intervene in your relationship, especially after all that’s happened.”

“You cracked your head or something? Did you or did you not literally physically fight me for my relationship with this same man?”

“To be fair, he was our professor, and he was completely out of line!”

“Emily, that was years ago—just drop it, would you?”

Emily purses her lips, holding up her hands in surrender. “All right, consider it dropped.”

“Good,” Darcy says.

“Fine,” Emily says.

Darcy releases the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. A wave of guilt washes over her. “I don’t want to fight with you, Emily. I’m sorry.”

“Me too.” Her voice is tired, drained. “Come on, drink up.”

“Remember when my birthday parties were actually something to look forward to? Now I feel like I’m just getting old.”

Emily scoffs. “You’re only twenty-one.”

“Is that all?” Darcy raises her eyebrows, taking a dramatic sip of her drink. “You know I’ve got gray hair?”

“You’ve had gray hair since you were fifteen.”

“Not like this, though,” Darcy leans forward slightly, disappointed at Emily’s lack of reaction. She eats her stew slowly, dipping some of the hardest bread she’s ever had into it in order to keep it from ripping her teeth out. She supposes there’s a certain charm about the Three Broomsticks that makes up for its lack of edible food.

The Three Broomsticks is busy today, packed full of mouthy old, drunk men whose eyes occasionally wander over to Darcy and Emily, tucked in a back corner of the building to give them as much privacy as one could possibly hope for in the place. The air is a hazy with pipe smoke, hiding the smokers’ faces from view behind clouds of gray smoke, and circling Darcy’s head like a halo. It hardly bothers her, and Madam Rosmerta either doesn’t notice or just doesn’t bother raising a fuss when Darcy lights a cigarette at the table. The smell blends right in, anyway. The dim lighting of the pub casts Darcy and Emily half in shadow, an ominous presence in the corner as they watch the patrons warily.

Laughter suddenly erupts at the far side of the room and Madam Rosmerta hurries over, scolding some raucous men much to their disdain. Darcy watches for a moment, puffing on her cigarette, her stomach aching with hunger, but not exactly eager for stew. Being here, in the Three Broomsticks with Emily, is almost surreal. For years, this had been their haven during Hogsmeade trips after they’d attempted to get alcohol from the Hog’s Head. They’d eaten through the greasy and somewhat comforting menu, had harbored secret crushes on the every changing staff, primarily made up of young boys fresh out of Hogwarts, never sticking around for long before diving into their planned careers.

Darcy turns back to Emily. “Remember my birthday in fifth?”

Emily smiles almost mischievously, leading Darcy to believe she remembers that party all too well. “How do you remember that party at all?”

Darcy laughs. “I don’t. Only what you, Gemma, and Carla have told me.”

The mention of their friends wipes the smile off of Emily’s face. She doesn’t look away from Darcy, who’s continued her attempt at forcing down the heel of bread, watching with a rather far-off gaze. “Gemma’s really sorry she couldn’t be here,” she says quietly. “It’s really hard for her lately.”

As much as Darcy loves Gemma, she can’t help but to feel irritated by this. She gives up with her bread, stuffing dumplings into her mouth in order to give her some time to think. “Wonder what it’s like for life to be hard.” The words sound too bitter to be coming from Darcy’s mouth.

“You know she’d have wanted to be here if she could.”

Darcy pushes her meal away and ashes on the floor of the pub in a very uncaring and lazy way. Emily watches, but says nothing, eyes flicking back up to Darcy face when she takes another drag. “How’s work going?”

“The Ministry’s a lot more orderly under Scrimgeour, that’s for sure, and I haven’t been able to put in much work at the Prophet because he’s got the Aurors running around constantly.” Emily sighs, pushing away her own food, as well. “Arrests have been made of people that are suspected to be Death Eaters, but if I’m being honest, I don’t think any actual Death Eaters have been arrested.”

Darcy narrows her eyes, brows furrowing. “Meaning?”

“Meaning that Scrimgeour is only concerned with the fact that arrests are being made and put in print for Britain to see that he’s doing something. Haven’t you been reading the Prophet?” Emily asks, her pretty face suddenly very serious.

“I’ve been skimming it, I suppose. I’ve seen that arrests have been made, but I don’t recognize any of the names.”

“You wouldn’t, because they aren’t Death Eaters,” Emily says matter-of-factly. She glances around, making sure that no one is listening in on their conversation. “I guarantee that if you roll up any of their sleeves, there’d be no Dark Mark. Most of the well known Death Eaters are already in Azkaban after the fiasco at the Ministry, but Scrimgeour isn’t satisfied.” Seeming very important, Emily sits up a little straighter in her chair and continues to speak in the same, quiet voice. “If you ask me, Scrimgeour has taken a very Barty Crouch approach to this. Fair hearings aren’t being given to everyone, and innocent people are being put in Azkaban.”

Darcy takes a long drag of her cigarette, tracing her teeth with her tongue. “On what grounds does he arrest them? I mean, how does he determine who is—in his eyes—guilty or not?”

“I don’t know.” Emily looks apologetically at Darcy for a long moment. “Scrimgeour is a very private man, very reclusive. I’m not involved in what he does, nor what the Wizengamot ultimately decides.”

“Is Umbridge still working there?”

“Unfortunately.”

Darcy tenses, looking down at her knuckles, feeling the sting of the spell that had so often bruised her knuckles. “ _Bastard_.”

Emily raises a distracted hand to alert Madam Rosmerta to their empty tankards, as if preparing to answer a question in class. The barmaid quickly refills their drinks. Emily waits for her to walk away again before continuing. “The _Prophet_ has been keeping busy, too.”

“I’m sure everyone is scrambling to write their view of what happened at the Ministry, or their opinion on the Chosen One.” Darcy drinks deep from her tankard again, sighing.

“Something like that. It keeps sales up, that’s for sure.”

“Listen, I’ve been thinking,” Darcy begins, leaning forward in her seat, her food nearly forgotten.

“Dangerous, but I’m listening.”

“I’m interested in meeting with Barnabas Cuffe. Do you think you could set something up?”

Emily doesn’t answer right away. Her eyes search Darcy’s face for an answer, but clearly can’t find one. “Why do you want to meet him? You’re not thinking of writing another article, are you?”

“Might be.”

“You know what the _Prophet_ is like,” Emily says, chewing noisily on her lower lip for a minute, sucking and biting anxiously. “They have strong ties with the Ministry, and that isn’t going to change until Cuffe decides he doesn’t mind risking termination. What do you want to write for the _Prophet_ for?”

Darcy thinks for a minute. “People read it.”

“People read _The Quibbler_ and _Witch Weekly_ , too. You’d have better luck with another newspaper or magazine.” Emily’s face hardens when Darcy contorts her face into a very pleasing look. Immune to Darcy’s so-called charm, Emily shakes her head. “I could probably get you a meeting Margaret Blankley. She’s the editor in chief of _Witch Weekly_. She was friends with mum, and she’s a big fan of yours, I hear.”

This is news to Darcy, and rather good news, at that. She lights another cigarette, unbothered by anyone as they drown in pipe smoke.

“Come on, Darcy. The _Prophet_ has been against you and Harry for years now. I don’t think Cuffe has anything against you, personally, but do you really want to align yourself with them after all they’ve said?” Emily seems to recognize that no matter what she says, Darcy isn’t going to listen. If Emily won’t get her a meeting with Cuffe, then she could always ask Slughorn, but she’d rather avoid asking Slughorn for any favors if she can. Emily graves a great sigh. “All right, at least tell me what you’re planning on writing. I’m not doing anything until I know whatever you’re planning won’t get me fired.”

Darcy looks quickly over her shoulder and takes a deep breath, looking Emily dead in the eyes. “I want to make something of myself, and I know it won’t be easy,” she says again. “But I’m twenty-one now, and I’m not a little girl. I want to prove that. I want to prove to people that I’m capable, that I’m someone who can think for themselves, even if it means opposing the Ministry.”

Emily’s eyes go wide and she rubs her temples wearily. “I appreciate your enthusiasm and passion, but that’s a . . . _big_ start. What are you actually planning on doing?”

“Establish credibility,” Darcy says quickly. She had thought on it for days, all weekend she’d been consumed by thoughts of how she could make a change without being ridiculed. Something that would begin to prove she’s capable of acting of her own accord without ruining things, capable of being a grown women without needing someone hovering at her elbow to guide her. “If I write a few fluff articles for the _Prophet_ , people might warm up to me more quickly. And with Harry being holed up at Hogwarts, away from reporters and journalists, I thought I could maybe take his place and garner publicity. The sister of the Chosen One is better than nothing, yeah?”

“How are you going to garner publicity?” Emily asks, and Darcy grins. She knows Emily’s expressions very well, and knows that she’s intrigued, which means Darcy has said something right.

“That’s where Professor Slughorn comes in.”

“All right,” Emily frowns. “You’ve lost me.”

Darcy shifts restlessly in her seat, sitting up straight, her heart racing with excitement. “Professor Slughorn is the best resource I currently have. He has connections to everyone who is someone in this world.” She clears her throat, splaying her hands on the tabletop. “I don’t want to be controlled anymore. Sirius was told to stay inside, to avoid the outside, to be a good boy, and all it did was get him killed. I’m not going to let the same happen to me. And when people start to love me, I can start to make changes.”

Emily doesn’t answer, but Darcy isn’t bothered. It’s not a frustrated look, nor an annoyed one. She’s smiling, like she and Darcy have just spent hour scheming together. It’s a tired smile, a fond smile, an affectionate one.

“You’ll help get me a meeting with Cuffe, then?”

“Yeah,” Emily answers softly, shaking his head and chuckling to herself. “I’ll get you a meeting with Cuffe.”

Darcy, wanting to throw her arms around Emily’s neck and squeeze until her head nearly pops off, settles with a squeeze of her dainty hand. Emily squeezes back. “Thanks, Em. I really owe you.”

Emily swallows hard, not letting go of Darcy’s hand. “Darcy, listen . . .” She runs a hand through her hair, looking as if she’s going to cry. She looks away, at the remains of her dinner, bottom lip quivering slightly before being caught between her teeth again. “I’m really sorry for everything. Especially everything that happened seventh year.”

The apology is so sincere and genuine that it makes Darcy’s heart hurt. For years, all she’d wanted was for Emily to apologize for her treatment of Lupin, for not wanting to allow Darcy this ray of happiness. But now that Emily is saying it, Darcy finds that it’s all very unnecessary. “It’s okay,” she says. “I really missed hanging out with you. I’m glad we’re doing it more again.”

“Me too.” Emily wipes at the tears that have yet to fall. “You want to go get a scotch egg? I remember exactly where that shop is. I won’t tell anyone if you don’t.”

Darcy’s already shrugging into her jacket before Emily has the entire question out. “ _Please_.”

“Is Snape going to be mad that I’ve stolen you for a few hours?” Emily wriggles her eyebrows.

“Who cares?” Darcy laughs breathlessly. “I’m not bothered. I can handle him.”

They spend the majority of the night giggling on the steps of the corner shop, exactly the same as it had been years ago, eating greasy scotch eggs wrapped in some kind of meat (Darcy isn’t one hundred percent sure it’s pork, but it kind of tastes like pork), and it’s just as good as she remembers. The yolks are perfectly runny, dribbling down their chins and making them laugh, fried enough to make them crunch with each bite. It’s not as cold in London as it is in Hogsmeade, likely due to the altitude difference, but the breeze is pleasantly chilly, turning the tips of their noses red as they relish their secret trip. It’s late enough that the streets aren’t as busy with cars commuting home from work, but still relatively early enough that Darcy and Emily are still able to people-watch, mostly younger people their age, heading to a nearby pub or club or even heading home for the night, laughing loudly with their friends, hailing cabs and crawling clumsily and drunkenly in the back.

“Feels pretty good to be away from Hogwarts, doesn’t it?” Emily asks with a cheeky little smirk that makes Darcy smile.

Darcy doesn’t answer, only begins to unwrap her second egg, hungry enough to eat three more. A car passes by, honking its horn at a group of kids who are running across the street. “I made Remus promise me something before he left,” she says, and Emily cocks a curious brow. “I made him promise that, this summer, we’ll be a family. He promised me children.”

“But I thought—”

“I know. I only wanted to hear him say it.” Darcy laughs weakly, softly. She bites into her egg with a gentle crunch. “If he doesn’t ask me to marry him by next summer, I’m going to.”

Emily stops chewing, her cheek bulging like a squirrel’s. She looks at Darcy as if the idea is absolutely ridiculous, but Darcy doesn’t falter. “That’s what you want?”

Darcy nods. “Yes.”

Emily smiles, resuming her chewing. Another car drives by them, Darcy lights a cigarette, the breeze picks up for a split second, the Knut grows warm in her pocket.

“This is still the best food I’ve ever had.”

Emily hums. “It would be better with beer.” She swallows the rest of her egg. “Happy birthday, Darcy.”

Darcy decides, later that night when she’s snug in her bed, that it’s been one of her better birthdays.

* * *

Being twenty-one doesn’t feel so great.

Part of her still feels half a child, especially at the staff table. The other part of her feels all grown up, especially when she’s teaching or with her brother and his friends.

But it isn’t until she gets out her photo album later that week that she feels . . . not _old_ , but as if she’s crossed some sort of finish line. It had barely occurred to her until now that she’s as old as her parents—sometimes older—in most of the pictures she has of them. She has far since outlived her parents. Fifteen years now she’s lived without them (has it really been that long? why can’t i remember them at all?), and looking at the pictures now, it seems that her parents had only been kids. She looks for a long time at a photograph of her parents Lupin had given her, a picture of them mere months before everything had happened.

Lily was conventionally beautiful, there’s no denying it, much the way Emily’s beauty radiates from her. Darcy’s dark red hair is the same shade as Lily’s, but while hers falls well past the middle of her back now, Lily perfectly straight hair had been kept short, just brushing her collarbones. There’s a bright youthfulness to her face that Darcy has never had, however—full cheeks that seem to be permanently tinted pink, a doe-eyed look instead of eyes full of caution and wariness, a smile that seems to scream true happiness instead of a tight, forced thing.

They look enough alike that Darcy’s satisfied, but Darcy wishes she could have such an innocent look about her. Even with her sharp features, she’s James, but certainly less lively than her father—no more so than Harry, of course. Darcy doesn’t look as much like James as her brother, but she can’t help but wonder how much of it is genetics, and how much of it is the weight of the world on her shoulders, or so it seems. The world has robbed her of any rosy cheeks, instead giving her a rather gaunt appearance, almost as if she’s been starved. Her green eyes lack the spark her mother’s had. They’re dead and cold, always looking glazed over, a distant and far-off look.

She tries to imagine what it had been like for her mother and father the night they were killed. She tries to imagine herself in her mother’s place—the same age, the same situation. It makes her sad to think that, at this age, Lily had already had a family. A happy and healthy marriage, two children that she loved very much and who loved her in return, a home, a life. There’s no doubt in Darcy’s mind that she would have done the same thing in Lily’s position, no doubt in her mind that she would have attempted to prevent Harry’s—her own children’s death—by throwing herself in front of them, by begging for mercy.

Still, a terrible thing for a twenty-one-year-old to have to face. At least her mother and father died bravely.

(but they’re still dead)

Darcy tries to push the cynical voice from the back of her mind, but it’s hard. Next year, at twenty-two, Darcy will look back at these pictures and have to face the fact that she has lived to be older than her parents, a thought that would break anyone. It hurts her that she doesn’t have anyone to talk about it with, either—Harry surely won’t want to discuss something so melodramatic with her, having to express his genuine feelings that he’s been forcing down for years now. Snape won’t want to hear her complain about it, she’s sure. While not exactly cold towards her, he has indeed attempted to distance himself, and Darcy’s still slightly afraid to overstep any boundaries with him, knowing that Snape absolutely has the potential to hurt her if he wants to. She’s still too angry with Dumbledore to discuss anything of the slightest importance with him. Hermione and Ron wouldn’t understand. The discussion would likely bring up bad memories for Emily, and Gemma is near incommunicado.

She writes her thoughts onto a piece of blank paper with her typewriter, intending to keep it for when Lupin comes home, not wanting to forget, but as soon as she finishes, she crumples it up and throws it in the fire, watching it burn. What a cruel and insensitive thing it would be to bring this up to Lupin. Maybe he’ll know how she’s feeling when he comes back. Maybe he’ll understand without her having to say anything. He always does.

Darcy ends up burying her feelings away, in a place that is not easily accessible, deep in her heart, a familiar place, and allows the world to keep turning.

* * *

“You’re saying Hagrid has stopped coming to meals because of you?”

Hermione frowns, sheepish. “None of us have continued with Care of Magical Creatures—”

“Obviously,” Ron adds, his mouth full of food. Hermione gives him a very cross look, her lips pursed, but she doesn’t contradict him. Ron bristles. “C’mon, Hermione, he can’t have thought we’d actually continue on with it. Especially me, and especially after he had us caring for Blast Ended Skrewts! It was only bound to get worse from there, yeah?” He turns to look at Darcy, awfully serious for a somewhat light-hearted conversation. “You know he’s still got Grawp out in that forest?”

“He what?” Darcy asks quickly.

“It’s true,” Harry sighs. “Whenever you’re free, I’m sure he’d really appreciate it if you went down and tried to teach him your name.”

“I’m never going into that forest again,” Darcy promises, and she’ll abide by it as much as she can. She’s had enough adventures in that damned forest to last a lifetime. “And I don’t ever want to see Hagrid’s brother. No offense to Hagrid. I’m just not. But I’m sure if you went to go see him and explain everything—”

“We haven’t had the time,” Hermione says, sounding more apologetic than either Harry or Ron looks. “Between studying and homework and . . . I hate it. I hate not talking to Hagrid.”

“Well, why don’t you go down this weekend?” Darcy leads the three of them up the marble staircase, towards her office. They jog behind her, Ron right on her heels with long strides to match her own. He’s grown a few inches over the summer, his legs stretching even longer. Soon, he’ll be taller than Darcy. “Take some time off studying to do something fun.”

“Not sure that would be such a fun visit,” Ron snorts. “Besides, Quidditch tryouts are this weekend. You’re coming to watch, aren’t you, Darcy?”

“Sure, I’ll come,” Darcy says, shrugging. She opens the door to her office and throws her bag on the desk, sitting in the rickety old chair provided to her, her legs upon the desktop and leaning her chair back on two legs. “Don’t really have any plans for the weekend, anyway. Maybe I’ll go and see Hagrid with you. I feel it’s always safer with you three around. Less time for him to criticize my relationship.”

“What are we even supposed to say to him?” Harry asks, sitting in one of the two empty chairs on the other side of the desk. “Sorry we didn’t want to continue your class because the creatures frankly scared us? Sounds pretty solid to me.”

“Just be honest with him . . . maybe not _so_ honest . . .” Darcy’s chair comes back down onto four legs hard. “Just tell him there wasn’t any room in your schedule for his class. I’m sure he’ll understand. Listen, I’ll see you guys in class. I have a few things to grab and then I have to go.”

Since Darcy’s conversation with Dumbledore, she’s done everything in her power to keep Slughorn from thinking of her as _abrasive_. She greets him politely at meals, always makes sure to smile at him when she catches him looking. If she’s being honest with herself, the thought of him seeing her as anything but kind and soft insults her. She’s anything _but_ abrasive! Or is she? Has the kind and soft visual of her been nothing but a mask, and Slughorn’s just able to see past it? Or has she simply molded to whatever version of her other people see, and she’s never _truly_ been kind and soft?

When she enters the classroom a few minutes prior to the end of lunch, Slughorn is already inside, preparing for the last sixth year class of the week. He’s been working them hard on antidotes, and while Darcy is wary of the many poisons he constantly has set up around the classroom, her thoughts wander back to Harry and the startling progress he’s made in barely two weeks. While his homework has been average, his actual attempts at potions are—for lack of a better word— _impressive_. She hasn’t had as much time to dwell on it lately, however, for her thoughts have been more focused on other things, primarily Lupin, and her desire for him to come home, to sleep next to her, to promise her things are going to be all right.

In fact, Darcy’s felt overwhelmed with thoughts of Lupin the past few days. He’s hardly been gone for very long—after all, Darcy’s had to endure weeks and weeks and weeks of him being gone. But she knows only one way to cope with it, and it’s a dangerous way, drinking herself into a stupor at night to touch herself without it making her so fucking sad, without it being so fucking pathetic, and his name always comes to her lips when she finishes, a choked and strangled sort of moan that is usually her breaking point. She always cries herself to sleep afterwards, cold without a body curled up beside her, arms around me.

“A letter came for you just after you left,” Professor Slughorn says, bringing her out of her reverie. Darcy turns around to face him just as he’s reaching inside his robes to retrieve a still sealed letter. “Here. I’ve brought it for you.”

Darcy forces herself to smile at him. “I trust you would tell me the contents if you knew them before I wasted my time opening this, Professor?” she teases, and a smile graces Slughorn’s wobbly face.

Slughorn chortles. “On the contrary, my dear. Far be it from me to ruin the surprise for you.” He keeps his eyes fixed on her as she reads the letter, attempting to judge her reaction. “There’s a smile on your face. I trust it’s good news? News from Remus, perhaps?”

“If it were news from Remus, I’d likely be singing,” Darcy laughs, crumpling Emily’s letter and tossing it into the roaring fire. It catches instantly, blackening and turning to nothing but ash. “A letter from my friend. She’s gotten me a meeting with Barnabas Cuffe.”

He looks delighted; there’s a sudden interested twinkle in his eye, but disappointment crosses his face with it. “I’m wounded. If it was a meeting you sought, you should have come straight to me!”

“I appreciate it, truly,” Darcy says, trying her best to look apologetic. “But . . . I just felt so awful about taking advantage of your kindness when I hadn’t even attempted to use my own connections first.”

“Never feel guilty about these things,” Slughorn says with an unnerving seriousness. He walks over to her, placing a hand on her shoulder and squeezing gently, leading her away from the hearth and back to the front of the classroom. “Anything you need, Darcy . . . anything you need. A young woman such as yourself should be looking into every opportunity offered her . . . not many would have the chance to explore so many pathways.”

“I’ve plenty of time to explore these opportunities, sir,” Darcy chuckles. As the first few students begin to file, Slughorn shuffles back to the teacher’s desk, peering into the bubbling cauldron full of a neon-green potion. She takes a seat at a desk in the far corner of the room, setting to work on her own things, but today’s lesson is particularly interesting, and Darcy finds it hard to concentrate on her lesson plans.

Within minutes, the room is full of a sickening, multi-colored fog caused by the many different smells and steam emitting from each person’s cauldron. Harry and Hermione seem to be doing fine, though Harry seems wary when Darcy walks over to his cauldron. He hunches over it as if expecting her to cheat, and claims that she’s distracting him when she lingers, even going so far as to compare her to Snape’s batlike presence. Darcy leaves him alone after that.

Ron struggles, looking every so often over at Hermione, or Ernie Macmillan, whose intense confidence and pride seem to be shaky today as he anxiously flips through his Potions book, chewing his nails.

“Any tips you’d like to share with us today, Darcy?” Ron asks hopefully, earning him a cold look from Hermione. Darcy doesn’t fail to notice, however, that Hermione seems to be listening in regardless of how she feels about it. “Because now would be an excellent time to share some of your wisdom.”

“How sweet of you to acknowledge my wisdom.” Darcy stands between Ron and Ernie, looking into their cauldrons. “All right. I’ve some wisdom for the each of you. Ron, you should have put the leech juice in three steps ago.” Ron’s ears go red, and he throws down his rat tail in frustration, stirring his potion furiously as if it will help any. “And Ernie . . .” She sniffs deeply, frowning. “Did you add . . . is that _peppermint_?”

“Oh, the smell was unbearable,” Ernie confesses without much hesitation. Ron nods his agreement with wide eyes and raised eyebrows. “I had to put something in or else I would have fainted.”

Darcy doesn’t really know what to say to that, so she suffices with a pat on Ernie’s shoulder and a “carry on”. The Ravenclaws do reasonably well. One of the girl’s attempt at an antidote is hot pink, on the other end of the color spectrum as it should be. One of her friends, a boy with long, dark hair, tries to help her fix it, but Darcy knows there will be no fixing it.

She’d skip the Slytherin table altogether, but Mary, the curly-haired girl who has never once seemed to mind that Darcy’s there, is raising her hand and attempting to get her attention. Darcy hesitates at the Ravenclaw table, looking at the other Slytherins, not wanting to seem prejudiced in the slightest, but almost afraid to walk over. Zabini is concentrating hard on his potion, sprinkling in some chopped Shrivelfig delicately and consulting his book again.

Draco Malfoy and Theodore Nott, unfortunately, have their heads pressed together, whispering. Their eyes occasionally find Darcy, and she knows exactly what they’re discussing. Mary follows Darcy’s line of sight, a crease appearing between her eyebrows as she catches Malfoy and Nott gossiping.

“Will you quit scheming? She won’t come over here if she thinks you’re up to something, and that Slughorn’s nothing but a great, overcompensating oaf.” Mary’s voice is sharp as a whip, and Malfoy and Nott stop talking merely because they’re shocked at her audacity. “Darcy, please, I need you to help me.”

Darcy casts around the classroom for Slughorn, who is fawning over Harry’s perfect potion. Sighing heavily, Darcy smiles at Mary, keeping her eyes fixed only on the girl, hoping this isn’t some nasty trick or trap she’s about to walk into. “What’s wrong?”

“I’ve followed the directions up to step eleven, but it hasn’t changed into the blue it’s supposed to be.” Mary points directly into her cauldron. It a few shades lighter than the night-sky blue that the potion should be. “I think my Wormwood Oil was diluted . . . it looked like it was. Could that ruin it?”

Darcy nearly exhales out of sheer relief. “It should be fine, it just won’t be as potent. Come by my office sometime. I have some Wormwood Oil you can have.”

“How generous,” comes Malfoy’s sneering voice, and both Darcy and Mary look up at him with scowls on their faces. “Perhaps _you’ve_ known nothing but secondhand things and charity your entire life, Potter, but some of us have some dignity left to us. I didn’t take you for a Potter sympathizer, Cottier.”

“I’m just trying to brew my potion, Malfoy,” Mary snaps, her cheeks bright red, but her voice cold and icy. “Besides, pretty rich of you to speak badly of secondhand things when you’ve got that Parkinson girl trailing after you like some pathetic house-elf.”

Blaise Zabini snorts, but is able to quickly disguise it as a cough when Malfoy glares hard at him.

“I could give you a detention, you know,” Darcy hisses, glancing around to make sure Slughorn won’t hear her. She looks directly into Malfoy’s eyes, preferring to look at him instead of Nott. “Heard from your daddy lately?”

“Heard from your wolf?”

Darcy hesitates. “That’s none of your business.”

“I heard something curious from my father,” Malfoy continues, in a low and uncharacteristically cold tone. Darcy finds herself unconsciously leaning closer to him to hear. She places her hand upon the edge of the table to hold herself in place, just beside Nott. “He says there’s scarring on your shoulder. Want to show us?”

“Your father’s a liar.” Darcy’s heart races in her chest. “Ten points from Slytherin.” It’s not justice, but it’s a start.

“What for?” Nott asks, outraged.

“For _cheek_ ,” Darcy grumbles, blushing in spite of herself.

“Then you might not like this,” Nott says again, his mouth very close to Darcy’s ear. Mary stands to the side, indignant, but not bothering to intervene. Blaise Zabini watches with a slight crease between his forehead. “My father says hello from his lonely cell in Azkaban.”

A chill runs down Darcy’s spine, but before she can speak, pain shoots through her entire body. Mary screams for Professor Slughorn and the class, as one, rushes over to see what the commotion is. Harry’s at her side within seconds, white-faced, and Nott swears loudly and calls out—“It was an accident, Professor, I swear it!” But his voice is strangely distorted, as if she’s hearing him speak from underwater.

It’s then that Darcy registers what is happening. Nott’s cauldron is tipped completely on its side, the light red and slightly congealed potion from within rushing towards the edge of the table where Darcy’s arm had been pressed against. The potion touches the sensitive and fair skin on the inside of her arm and her flesh begins to bubble—blistering, _burning_. It’s going to eat a hole in her flesh, right down to the bone, she just knows it, and she hears Malfoy in the background, attesting to Nott’s insistence that it was an accident. Students are crowding around her, suffocating her, looking down in horror as the potion causes her open flesh to turn an awful, corrupted green, as if her flesh is rotting. The smell is the worst—burning flesh, like she’s been set on fire, a smell that makes her sick to her stomach. Darcy stumbles backwards, her vision tunneling from pain, as someone throws a wet rag over her arm that soothes the burn but doesn’t stop it completely, wiping the potion’s residue off. She shuts her eyes tight, sweat dripping into them and making them sting. The pain surges through her arm again, her heart beats painfully fast. Tears spill down her cheeks, and she wants to scream, but she can’t find her voice while she’s attempts to breathe.

“Class dismissed!” Slughorn shouts, his voice very loud in her ear, making her eyes snap open again. Her chest is heaving, she’s so scared, so _scared_ , so afraid. It hurts, it tingles, just like the Unforgivable Curse had made her feel. She steals another peek at her skin, her heart leaping in her throat at the sight of it—there’s a hole in her skin that’s only worsening, and it looks infected, and around the edges, the skin has turn of d black like parchment thrown into a fire to burn (where’s Professor Snape to save your life when you need him?). “Granger . . . run ahead and let Madam Pomfrey know that we’ve had an incident with . . . what seems to be a _severely_ misbrewed Baneberry Potion and Miss Potter!”

“Yes, sir!” Hermione squeaks, darting from the classroom as fast as she can. Darcy watches her go, bushy brown hair the last thing to cross the threshold. Her arm throbs, jerking uncontrollably.

“He did it on purpose,” Darcy croaks, but when she looks at Harry, his business-like stare makes her realize there’s no need for her to have to explain herself. Looking directly at her brother, more years squeeze from the corners of her eyes. “It hurts . . . it hurts . . .”

“Harry and . . . what’s your name again?”

Someone clears their throat. “Ron Weasley, sir,” comes Ron’s voice.

“Right, right,” Slughorn says in a rather panicked voice. Grabbing hold of her left arm, her untouched one, he wraps his fingers tight around her to try and help her up. “Let’s get her to the hospital wing. Harry, make sure you keep that rag on her arm until we reach the infirmary . . .”

The three of them all attempt to lift her awkwardly. Ron accidentally brushes his sleeve against her burned arm and she yells, startling them all so she drops to her knees, sobbing with pain. “Here,” Ron says to everyone, squeezing her shoulder in apology. “I can carry her.”

Ron lifts her with ease and Harry makes sure the cloth stays put on her arm. She sobs into Ron’s chest, and she can feel his arms tensing and trembling every so often as they make their hurried way down to the hospital wing, Slughorn bringing up the rear.

Anger and hatred washes over her—not enough to wipe out the near blinding pain in her arm as her skin continues to die and pulse and decay just out of sight. If she could have gotten her wand out, Nott would have been blasted to bits by now. If she could have reached him, she would have wrapped her hands around his neck and throttled him like the bastard he is. Doesn’t Nott realize the vile man his father is? What he tried to do to Darcy? Or worse—does Nott know and just doesn’t care? Darcy has never been so frightened of a student before, never thought someone would have the audacity and a queer form of courage to do something so dangerous, reckless, cruel, and bold.

(no one would have dared harm a real teacher)

_Shut the fuck up!_

Ron carries her into the hospital wing, still crying loudly, maybe even louder than before. Hermione and Madam  
Pomfrey are waiting anxiously for her arrival, and everything seems to happen too fast for Darcy to understand it all. One moment she’s still in Ron’s violently quivering arms, the next she’s being dropped rather unceremoniously in a cot and the curtain is being pulled shut around her, the matron, Slughorn, her brother, and Ron and Hermione. Madam Pomfrey already has the nightstand covered with potions and salves and liquids and bandages, her face set as if prepared for quite the challenge. It makes Darcy wary, and it isn’t until Madam Pomfrey wipes her forehead with a cloth and it comes back soak does Darcy realize how much she’s been sweating.

Her robes have been removed, but she doesn’t remember shrugging out of them. Her dress is soaked through, a sheen of sweat glimmering on her chest above her modest neckline. It clings to her sticky skin, just as her dark red hair sticks to her glistening face, cheeks damp with both sweat and tears. Her breath comes in shaky rasps, sounding like a panting dementor, and her arms shakes uncontrollably in Madam Pomfrey’s loose and gentle grip.

When she peels back the cloth, there’s a collective ‘ugh’. The potion has burnt the flesh down to nearly the bone, the stink of death making everyone cover their noses. Flaps of skin hang useless, dark green and black as pitch like frostbite. The cool air stings it and Darcy screams suddenly, feeling strong enough for it.

“I want Professor Snape,” Darcy insists, unable to tear her eyes away from her arm. It’s foul and horrible and she can’t believe that’s her arm she’s looking at. Madam Pomfrey frowns, reaching for a liquid off the tabletop. Panic courses through her veins, making her heart beat so fast that she feels dizzy and faint. “No—no, I want Professor Snape—”

“Professor Snape has class right now,” Madam Pomfrey explains gently, with the patience of a loving mother. Darcy shakes her head, begging, pleading for Snape. Ignoring her completely, Madam Pomfrey continues, sharing a meaningful look with everyone else. They seem to understand, for Harry holds onto her other arm under the pretense of holding her free hand, Ron stands behind the bed to hold both her shoulders, Slughorn puts a firm hand on her knee, and Hermione touches her other leg. “This is just like a local anesthetic. I’m going to numb your arm before I wash it and clip the dead skin. Once we get it cleaned up, we can begin regrowing it.”

“Clip?” Darcy asks, shaking her head, fighting everyone who attempts to hold her down. “Don’t—dont—no—I want—Snape—don’t  _clip_ —”

“I need you to stop moving, Darcy.” Madam Pomfrey purses her lips, exhaling through her nose. “All right. Horace, do you mind?”

“Are you sure, Poppy?”

“Knock her out. Trust me, I know Potter. It’ll be easier this way.”

* * *

Darcy wakes rather peacefully.

The hospital wing is completely dark when she wakes, not a single candle lit, or light coming from the curtained glass windows that line a wall of Madam Pomfrey’s office. With the crescent moon hidden behind clouds, it does little to brighten the infirmary. There’s a dull aching in her arm, but the wound is hidden from view by clean, soft bandages wound around it. Her dress is gone, too. She’s in her own pajamas, a pair that Emily had gotten for her years ago that show her ankles and her midriff now. Yellow cotton things with a pretty flower pattern and short sleeves that make her feel like a princess. Harry or Hermione must have gotten them for her from her room.

Beside her bed, sitting in a chair, is a familiar silhouette that hardly startles her. “I was asking for you,” Darcy croaks, surprised that her voice still works at all. Her entire being is exhausted. She almost feels as if she’s on her deathbed. “Light a candle so I can look at you.”

He strikes a match against the side of the box, the tiny flame illuminating his face for the briefest second in a flattering orange light. In this lighting, he looks less sallow, more healthy, more happy. Once Snape lights the lone candle beside them, he blows the flame out. “I brought you something,” he whispers hoarsely, reaching into his robes and withdrawing a soft pack of cigarettes.

“You went into my room,” Darcy says, taking one from his outstretched hand, placing it to her lips, and allowing him to light it with another match.

“I thought it easier, in this case, to ask forgiveness instead of permission.”

“And if I don’t forgive you?” she asks, sitting up with a soft groan and taking a long drag of her cigarette. “What have you done with Theodore?”

Snape’s face darkens and his black eye flash with anger. “Mr. Nott will be punished as befits his crime.”

“He spilled that potion on purpose. I want him expelled. I want him as far away from me as possible.” Darcy’s hand shakes—her left hand, the one with the cigarette in it, for her entire right side is painful. “Tell me you’ve punished him appropriately.”

He’s quiet, and Darcy shakes her head, angry again. “I can’t expel him, Darcy, not when there is no proof that he did it on purpose. There were witnesses who claim it was nothing more than an accident—”

“Does my word count for nothing?” she spits at him, feeling lightheaded with anger. “Would expulsion still be out of the question if the same thing happened to Professor Slughorn? Or you?” Darcy looks into Snape’s eyes, willing him to read her anger, her hurt. How could he do nothing? Doesn’t he care about her? Doesn’t it destroy him to know that one of his own students did something such as this to her? Darcy ashes on the floor and Snape scrunches his nose. “If you don’t expel him, you’re leaving the door open for him to do it again.”

“No,” Snape replies, in a voice so strong that it reverberates around the empty room. “Nothing like this will ever happen again. I will make sure of that.”

Darcy wants to believe him so badly. Tears well up in her already swollen and puffy eyes. She takes a quick drag, hoping it will combat the crying she knows is going to come. “You’ve made a fool of me, Professor Snape,” she rasps. “After what his father did to me, you would allow him to continue to hurt me. I’m going to have scars there, did you know that? Madam Pomfrey told me just a little while ago. A scar where my skin had to be cut away.”

What little color is left in Snape’s face is drained instantly. He looks away, turning his face so it’s half hidden in shadow. Darcy is privately pleased by this show of his shame, hoping that her words have affected him. “I can’t expel him. You know why I can’t.”

Darcy tenses. “Because they’ll suspect you?” It’s a possibly she hadn’t really considered until right now. If Voldemort were to see or hear of Snape’s punishment towards a boy who hurt her . . . is it so far-fetched? How much does Voldemort and his Death Eaters know? It would explain why Snape is here in the dead of night, where no one can see him with her. She clears her throat and asks in a much softer tone, “Do you want to see it?”

Snape nods, and Darcy offers her arm, nodding her head slightly in encouragement. He lets go of his breath and holds her arm with one hand, unwrapping the bandage tenderly and with the utmost care. The pressure on her arm makes her cringe.

“I really was asking for you,” she says again as he unravels another layer, glancing up at her face for a split second. “See what happens when you’re not Potions Master anymore? I can’t have Slughorn saving my life. He’s terrible at it.”

“You seem fine to me,” Snape comments, looking her over critically before pulling the bandage off completely. Darcy sucks in her breath through gritted teeth, cringing at both the pain and the sight of it.

Her skin has regrown, but it’s not the same. She’s missing a freckle, and it seems too shiny and too much like scar tissue. Where the potion had burned a hole in her arm is now fixed, but around it, where Madam Pomfrey had to clip the dead and dying skin, it looks almost as if it’s been stitched, but there are no stitches present or visible. That’s where the scarring is, and Snape’s finger goes to touch it, but he thinks better of it at the last second and lowers his hand. Darcy sighs, relieved that he decided not to touch it, afraid of the pain it might bring.

“I showed you mine, now you show me yours,” she teases.

Snape scowls, picking the bandage back up to rewrap it. “Why are you so interested in the damn thing? You should be horrified by it, foolish girl.” His thumb accidentally brushes over Darcy’s wound and she makes a strangled sort of noise. “I’m sorry. Is this too tight?”

“No, it’s perfect.” Darcy watches him wrap her arm with an almost lazy confidence about him. His fingers work deftly, as if they’ve done this a hundred times before. She gives the silence time to settle before speaking again. “Haven’t you ever wondered what your life might be like if you didn’t have it?”

“I don’t think that’s any of your business.” His tone is not unkind, but less than amused. “I am not going to spend my days dwelling on things that might have or could have been.”

Darcy lowers her arm back to her side as Snape finishes the bandages. “Put this out for me,” she whispers, holding out her cigarette, burned down to the butt. She draws her knees up to her chest.

“It truly is a filthy habit. If it were up to me, you’d never touch another one.”

“You were the one who went into my room to bring them here.”

“I thought the situation may have warranted it. Don’t get used to it.” Snape inhales and exhales deeply. “You look to be doing just fine. I should go.”

“You’re leaving already?”

“What more would you have of me?” Snape asks quickly, making Darcy frown. His tone is icy. “You want to ogle my forearm, is that it? You want to pretend that you can make it go away if you wish for it enough?”

Darcy’s heart skips a beat. “I’m sorry,” she breathes, feeling frightened, small, childish. “I didn’t mean any disrespect.”

Snape’s expression doesn’t soften like she’d hoped it would at these words. He leans closer to her, the chair groaning beneath him. “It should terrify you,” he says, and Darcy swallows hard. “It is not one of Lupin’s gruesome scars, something for you to fawn over. It is the mark of the man who killed your parents.”

“You’re not like them,” Darcy protests, albeit feebly.

“Aren’t I?” he sneers. “You don’t know anything about me, only what you want to believe.” In a very dramatic fashion, Snape gets to his feet, a nonexistent wind ruffling his black cloak, reminiscent of the way the curtain over the veil had swayed at the Department of Mysteries. “You’re a fool.”

Darcy looks away from him, breathing very heavily. She’s too tired to fight, to argue. She knows what will happen if they fight now—the same thing that happens every time. They’ll spit a few cruel, below-the-belt words and curses at each other, and by the end of their argument, they’ll both be red faced and panting after some outburst confessing soft and confused feelings for each other, looking at each other as if they’ve never seen each other before.

Snape gives her a stiff bow at the foot of her bed, one that she only catches from her peripheral vision. “I’m glad that you are doing better, Darcy. I wish you a speedy recovery.”

His words are empty.

“Get out,” she growls, and he wastes no time in doing so. 


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m just going to say this now, lest I forget to say anything at all, so:
> 
> Two years ago I published the first chapter of this massive project I took on: rewriting these stories. Mostly, I did it because I was bored, depressed, had no goals, and wanted to write something original, but had absolutely zero ideas. It was a project for myself and I didn’t really care about readers or comments or what have you, but I told myself I would see this through until the end, and over a million words later, I am absolutely in awe of how far my writing has come. It still needs work and much more fine-tuning, but this has given me something to be proud of, which means a lot to me since I lack pride in myself a lot of the time. 
> 
> I just want to thank everyone who keeps up with these, who gives me feedback or talks to me through Tumblr. I am so excited to be more than halfway through the series, am so proud of myself for finally developing what I consider my own personal writing style, and I am so happy and grateful for the friends I’ve made along the way. 
> 
> I’m sorry that I haven’t been updating as frequently as usual, but April has turned out to be a busy month for me with extracurricular things in addition to concerts, going out of state quite a few times, event planning with work, and nap time! 
> 
> Given that, I apologize that I have nothing to offer you but a filler chapter. Sorry 👀

“That’s looking really nice today, Potter.”

“Yeah.” Darcy extends her right arm, the underside of her arm facing up. Hugging her knee to her chest with the other stretched out in front of her on the bed, she takes a drag off her cigarette. The wound on her arm still bears some puckered pink scars, small ones in truth, and the regrown skin has lost some of its unnatural shine. “Smaller than I thought it would be. Still a good conversation piece, I reckon.”

“I thought we were going to try and limit our incidences,” Madam Pomfrey replies gravely, wiping Darcy’s arm with a warm cloth, making sure it doesn’t get infected.

“It wasn’t my fault!” Darcy protests loudly, scowling. “He did that on purpose, and Snape doesn’t even care. Ron told me all he got was a handful of detentions.”

“ _And_ a letter home to his guardian.”

“What kind of punishment is that, anyway?” Darcy scoffs, ignoring the matron’s hard stare as she continues to smoke. “That’s like if he were to write home to my Aunt Petunia. What’s going to happen? She’s going to take away my already non-existent privileges? I’ll have to stay home during the next family outing?” She scrunches her nose, reaching over to grab the glass ashtray off the nightstand without disturbing Madam Pomfrey’s work. She balances it on her outstretched thigh and ashes in it. “He should be expelled. If it had happened to anyone else, he’d have been expelled, and you know it, Madam Pomfrey.”

Madam Pomfrey purses her lips tightly, reminding Darcy very much of Aunt Petunia. “I can’t say that I wholeheartedly agree with what Professor Snape has deemed an . . . _appropriate_ punishment, but Professor Snape is still Theodore’s Head of House and it is up to him to decide what is appropriate or not.”

Darcy catches Madam Pomfrey’s eye. “I think that’s a bullshit.”

“Professor McGonagall has already voiced a similar opinion to the Headmaster, or so I’ve been told.” Madam Pomfrey smiles very impishly then, wicked and very unlike her. It makes her look younger, despite the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes. “But don’t tell anyone you’ve heard that from me.”

“Oh,” Darcy grins, intrigued. She raises her eyebrows nearly to her hairline. “Are we gossiping now? I think I could quite get used to this.”

“I don’t know that we’ll make it a point to gossip more often,” Madam Pomfrey says, regaining her stern and maternal quality, but there’s still a very welcome warmth to her tone that Darcy likes. “But what harm can come from two friends sharing secrets?”

“Are we friends?” Darcy asks, slightly taken aback by this. When Madam Pomfrey doesn’t answer, she pulls her arm away, puts out her cigarette, replaces the ashtray, grabs a nearby copy of _Witch Weekly_ , and immediately hides behind it.

“How are you feeling?” The question is asked so soft, so gentle, it’s as if Madam Pomfrey has asked her how it feels to be dying.

“I’m fine.”

“And how much alcohol does it take for you to reach _fine_?” Madam Pomfrey asks.

Darcy glares at her over the top of the magazine. “You know, I remember a time when you didn’t ask so many questions.”

“Are you still having nightmares?”

Pausing, Darcy accepts defeat. Madam Pomfrey is able to see right through her hardened façade, uncaring about hurting Darcy’s feelings in the process. But Darcy knows the matron cares for her, knows that she cares for her wellbeing and health, and it’s that knowledge that makes Darcy lower her magazine. She looks down at her feet, unable to meet Madam Pomfrey’s eyes.

“Yeah.” Feeling guilty about snapping earlier, Darcy elaborates briefly. “Sometimes, like . . . falling asleep after drinking makes it better.”

“I can fix you up some Sleeping Draughts. We’ll weaken them, dilute them, to make them more of a mild sedative.” Madam Pomfrey’s tone is curt and professional, confident. Darcy likes the confidence. It makes her feel safe confiding such private things to her. “You need to cut back on the drinking, Potter. I mean it this time.”

“What am I supposed to drink?” Darcy grumbles, unhappy with this particular piece of advice. “Pumpkin juice?”

“How about . . . _water_?” Madam Pomfrey asks with a cocked eyebrow, mocking Darcy’s sarcasm with an eerily deadpan delivery. “Might do you some good to flush out all the alcohol and . . . whatever else you put in your body. And stay away from that coffee, Potter. Don’t even think about it. Merlin’s beard—I swear your standing heart rate sixth year was three hundred beats per minute.”

“That’s because I wasn’t drinking nearly as much alcohol as I wanted. Going through withdrawal,” Darcy says. Sixth year was tough, and she attributes her academic success that year—despite everything else that happened—mostly to coffee. “I can’t just drink water. That’s gross. Besides, it makes me bloat and that’s the worst feeling in the world.”

Madam Pomfrey stares at her with a look of utter disbelief. “Are you six-years-old? Just drink the damn water.” Stammering for a moment, finding speech difficult, she finally shakes her head in a very exasperated fashion. “I don’t know what to tell you about the bloating, I—perhaps you should try . . . urinating more often, or—why are you doing this to me, Potter?”

“You wanted to know my problems, didn’t you? I’m telling you now. I’ve plenty of them. Should I go on?”

“If I let you have your fun for a few minutes, will you really tell me how you are?”

Darcy considers her. The last thing she wants to do right now is to pick her own brain, to have to talk about every little thing that bothers her. The weight of everything that has happened in the past twenty-four hours is still crushing, and being overwhelmed with such an extreme range of emotions makes her irritable. The rage makes her cold, the humiliation makes her want to shame others, the fear makes her jittery. Madam Pomfrey is an undeserving victim, she knows, but Darcy wonders how far Madam Pomfrey will allow this to go on for.

“Sometimes I get this pain in my left side, like when I’m fucking or something—”

“Enough.” Madam Pomfrey is all business now, but Darcy doesn’t falter, a pleased smile playing at her lips. “If you want me to leave, or if you have a serious problem you’d like to address, or if you want to continue this charade, you need to speak like you have just an ounce of respect for me.”

Darcy lights another cigarette, shame creeping up on her. It’s a sign of her fragile mental state that Madam Pomfrey doesn’t insist she put it out. “What are you going to do if I just keep going?” she asks. “Just leave if you want.”

There’s a tense silence between them that seems to last hours. Darcy watches her, slowly smoking her cigarette, filling the bedroom with the stale smell of smoke. Finally, Madam Pomfrey asks again, “How are you feeling, Potter?”

Madam Pomfrey doesn’t look away. Darcy blushes. “Truth?”

“Truth.” The matron nods.

Darcy draws both her knees back up to her chest, hugging them to her, resting her cheek atop her knees. She clears her throat, closing her eyes, hating herself for crying already. “I’m not feeling very good, Madam Pomfrey,” she rasps.

“No, I suspected as much.”

Tears are good, Madam Pomfrey tells her as Darcy cries into her hands. Tears mean grieving, tears are healthy. Darcy doesn’t even know what or who she cries for, or why—the reasons seems to change and fluctuate as quickly as her moods these days.

First her tears are strictly for Sirius, and when she unloads her grief for him, it is messy and incoherent and her unhealthy amount of love for him makes her sick to her stomach. She has so much of it left to give to him, so many more things she has to say to him, and Darcy hadn’t realized that she’d been keeping a firm hold on these things, clinging to them in the feeble hope that he might come back, that one day he might return for her to scoop her from the devastation as he once had when she was young. It feels sometimes as if Sirius is just on the other side of a doorway or a wall, or just standing in her peripheral vision where he is no more than a shadow, but when she turns her head, he was never there at all. Sometimes she can hear him speaking to her, she claims, not outloud, but in her head, the way she’d heard the voices coming from the veil, beckoning to her to join them.

What she wouldn’t give to have Sirius ruffle her hair again, or place a kiss to her forehead, or flash a find and affectionate smile at her across the room. They had been a family, she tells Madam Pomfrey—a family in a way she and Harry had never been (at least, from her point of view, though Harry might see it differently), in a way that she and Lupin have never been (not that she’s complaining about their relationship). Darcy knows that both she and Sirius had spent a lot of time dwelling over the family they could have been, dwelling over the night that changed both of their lives. They had both clung to that night, and it had led them to be overly attached and yet unsure about boundaries, causing them to be distant, Darcy realizes. If only they’d both been able to properly form a healthy relationship with each other, things would be different. Sirius might still be alive. But no help was offered them—never. They were left to flounder and fail before the eyes of their friends, in front of Dumbledore, who had done nothing.

When she cries all of her tears for Sirius, she cries for her parents. She cries for the nights spend locked in her room at the Dursleys, who didn’t care what had happened to her, who didn’t care if she was well or not. She cries for the lonely childhood she was handed, the hand that she was dealt that was absolute shite, the goblet passed to her that she never asked for nor wanted. She cries for Mrs. Duncan and Emily, whose bliss and happiness had been crushed mere weeks after finishing seventh year. She cries for Ludo Bagman, who had abandoned her after making her love him. She cries for Gavin, and the Tuttles—both who had been so good to her, so loving in ways Darcy doesn’t believe she deserves.

And she cries for Lupin, detailing to Madam Pomfrey without any shame what she had asked him to promise. She wants him to come home, to be at her side always, to never leave her again. All she wants is to curl up at his side and sleep for days, knowing nothing but the warmth of his arms and the feeling of his rough fingers carding through her hair, lips against her forehead and scratchy chin against her cheek. She cries for a home with him, painted light yellow with a colorful garden surrounding it, a white fence, a bay window to read by, a little boy running around the yard with Lupin’s face and a little girl chasing after him with Darcy’s red hair.

She misses him more than she should, she thinks. Darcy can’t help but to think that her friends tiptoe around the subject of Lupin, speaking in low and soft voices as if speaking of a dying man, of someone who isn’t coming back. Yet Darcy’s Knut doesn’t fail to warm in her pocket at least once a day, during unsuspecting times. And each time it sets her heart to racing, whether it be during class or late at night when the heat wakes her from sleep. It’s a reminder that he’s still alive, and when she changes the numbers in return, it’s a reminder for Lupin of the home he has waiting for him. She doesn’t want to think about what he’s doing or who he’s with, doesn’t want to think about a day where her Knut doesn’t change at all. Darcy tries to think of the day he comes home, their reunion after being apart. She promises herself that she’ll shower his face with soft kisses mingled with her salty tears. When she thinks about it hard enough, she swears she can feel his lips curling into a smile against her cheek.

Darcy is too humiliated to confess to Madam Pomfrey that she doesn’t think she can have children. If it is true, Darcy knows the matron will walk around with pity in her heart. If it isn’t true, Madam Pomfrey will know something very intimate and private about Lupin that she doesn’t need to know.

Darcy even cries for Snape, cries tears that she’s sure he’s never shed for himself. She keeps this private, not wanting Madam Pomfrey to know she harbors any unnatural love for Snape in her heart. She wishes everything could go back to the way it was last year, even if things were very confused for her. At least then, Snape wasn’t ashamed or embarrassed to touch her in front of people, whether it be a palm on the nape of her neck or a hand on her shoulder or the small of her back. It’s hard to describe to the matron, she finds, how much Darcy _craves_ touch, innocent or not. Just a steadying touch to ground her—and Snape’s touch has always grounded her.

After a long while, Darcy cries herself nearly into a coma. She’s physically exhausted, and her body is still racked with sobs and grief, and she’s covered in a layer of cold sweat because she’s worked herself up so much. Madam Pomfrey pulls the blankets over Darcy, who hides her face by burying it in her pillow. She’s said too much, far too much, and the shame of it all haunts her. How can she ever look Madam Pomfrey in the face now? Now that she knows all of her awful and disgusting feelings?

“Don’t touch me,” Darcy snarls, as Madam Pomfrey’s fingers make to brush some hair out of Darcy’s face. The matron pulls her hand back rather abruptly, clearly shocked by this sudden change of attitude. She closes her eyes tight, trying to stem the flow of more tears, her hand wrapped just as tight around the Knut she hopes will burn warm in return soon.

“Potter, listen,” Madam Pomfrey says, and the way that she says it makes Darcy feel she’s been attacked by a werewolf all over again. “I have some old colleagues at St Mungo’s. If you’d allow me to reach out to them, I think we can arrange something and I think we can begin to make progress—”

“I don’t want your help!” Darcy counters loudly, lifting her head from her pillow and looking awkwardly at Madam Pomfrey. Her face is bright red, she’s sure, but the anger is on her now and there is no stopping it. “I’m not a child! I just needed a good cry, and I would have been just fine if you hadn’t decided to come here and continue to prod me for answers!”

“Potter—”

“Will you just go away?” she snaps. “You’ve gotten what you wanted from me, so _go._ I don’t want to talk to you anymore.”

Darcy burrows into her pillow again, listening to Madam Pomfrey’s heavy sigh and, finally, her footsteps receding and the door to Darcy’s office slamming shut. She sinks into her bed, wanting nothing more than to become one with it and never having to leave. It shames her that she’s spoken to Madam Pomfrey like that—Madam Pomfrey, who has never been anything but kind and gentle to Darcy, who has never made her feel any less than who she is over the years with her nightmares and constant stream of issues.

_Maybe I am just a child._

It makes Darcy sick again. Everyone already sees her as one. It’s why they hate looking at her and Lupin together, as if Lupin should be ashamed of himself. Yet Darcy can’t help but think . . . what did she know of love when Lupin came around? She knew nothing of it—nothing of the wonders it could provide, nor of the heartbreak it could cause. She had dived into love willingly and with fervor, but now Darcy thinks that might have been foolish. Her frustration with Lupin’s own guarded and reluctant part in their relationship had made her feel bad, had only dragged her deeper into it.

She’s not a fool. She knows that there’s a slight imbalance between them. Lupin has always had a better grasp on how the world is, who had accepted the world was not fair, who had recognized anger and bitterness only got you so far. Not like Darcy, who had decided to be angry, to react to the pain instead of accepting it and attempting to coexist with it. He seems leaps and bounds ahead of Darcy in that manner, and it makes her feel small.

She’s always liked to believe her life, her pain, her suffering, has wizened her, but maybe it hasn’t. But she can’t deny to herself how much she needs him, in the unhealthy way she needs Harry, in the unhealthy way she needed Sirius.

But when the Knut finally warms, all doubt is sweeped from her mind, replaced by visions of love and tender kisses and gentle touches, the feeling of his arms around her naked body for the first time, such simple contact that she hadn’t realized she’d craved until he held her.

Darcy places the coin to her chest, hoping that Lupin will be able to sense, in some strange and unnatural way, that her heart still beats for him.

* * *

Darcy adheres to her promise to Ron about attending Quidditch tryouts, though she thinks if it were raining any harder than just a pathetic little mist, she might have made some excuse to stay in bed all day. However, given Hogwarts students’ inane ability to spread gossip like wildfire, Darcy had been unwilling to enter the Great Hall for a myriad of reasons, but mostly because she doesn’t want to look Theodore Nott in the eyes.

It’s not that she’s afraid of him. Because she’s not. At least, that’s what she’s told herself the past two weeks now whenever she comes face to face with him. Was it not enough for the universe to push her together with Nott Sr., to have him rub himself against her in the hopes of bringing him some long-forgotten release? No one has _ever_ touched Darcy in such a way without her consent, no one has _ever_ made her feel so dirty or so impure. And now his son has given her a scar—no matter how small—to always be a constant reminder of what happened in the Hall of Prophecy, in the entire Department of Mysteries.

And perhaps the most daunting part about it all—how will she explain this to Lupin? Surely he’ll notice as soon as her arm is in his direct line of vision, if not earlier. And what will he say when she confesses Theodore Nott had done it as some sick form of revenge for his father? Lupin had been beyond livid when Darcy told him what Nott Sr. had done—or tried to do—to her. Darcy can’t remember having ever seen him so angry, his face contorted with rage to make him look frightening to her. The last thing she wants is for Lupin to decide Darcy doesn’t need to be at Hogwarts anymore. She wouldn’t put it past him to complain to Dumbledore, and she’s absolutely sure he will. And when Dumbledore tells him there is nothing further that can be done, Darcy only hopes that rolling around in bed for a little while will calm him down and make him forget about the entire thing.

Harry, Hermione, and Ron take breakfast in the cool courtyard with her, enjoying the seconds of sun before it’s covered by clouds again. Both Hermione and Darcy’s copies of the _Daily Prophet_ spread open in front of them, Harry and Ron reading distractedly over their shoulders whenever a headline catches their attention.

Hermione hums, her breakfast already forgotten and growing cold as ice. “Did you know Eloise Midgen was withdrawn by her father last night?”

Darcy drinks deep from her coffee mug, spiked with firewhisky. “I heard Professor Sprout was speaking with Eloise’s father for nearly three hours, trying to convince him to let her stay.” She looks around quickly to make sure they’re alone. “Professor Sprout was furious with Dumbledore. She reckons if he’d have been here and spoken to Eloise’s father instead, Eloise might still be here.”

“What’s Dumbledore got to do with it?” Harry’s eyes snap from the article he’d been reading to Darcy’s profile. “What do you mean if he’d have been here?”

Darcy frowns. “Haven’t you noticed that Dumbledore’s gone? He left Thursday night, or I imagine he did. It’s unlike him not to come to me in times of great injuries, and he didn’t make a single appearance in the hospital wing.”

“Where do you reckon he’s going?” Ron rubs at his smooth chin, yet to produce any tiny, ginger hairs. “You think it’s anything to do with the Order?”

“I think it’s everything to do with the Order,” Hermione answers, looking very seriously at Ron. She flips a page of her newspaper with a lazy flourish.

“Parvati Patil told me her parents want her and Padma to go home, as well,” Darcy announces, finishing her coffee and already feeling the jitters. She pulls her jacket tighter around herself as a breeze cuts deep, chilling her bones and blowing her newspaper all around, and some of her toast goes gliding away from her.

“And Hannah Abbott hasn’t come back since she was told her mother was found dead,” Harry says suddenly, sending a chill down Darcy’s spine that has nothing to do with the wind or cold.

As Darcy struggles to control her newspaper after it being defiled by the wind, she goes to close it, but does a double take when she reads one of the headlines. She quickly glosses over it, shock or anger settling in her (she isn’t quite sure which). “Holy shit,” she whispers, which is enough to draw all three of the others to her side, gazing down to where she’s pointing with her index finger. “Look at this. They’ve arrested Stan Shunpike.”

“That bloke from the Knight Bus?” Ron frowns, looking at the article with disbelief written all over his face. “Read it out.”

“He was arrested late last night,” Hermione says quietly, brown eyes moving fast back and forth as she picks out the more important pieces. As she reads, Darcy and Harry exchange a wary look overtop of Hermione’s bushy hair. “He was overheard talking about the Death Eaters secret plans in some pub.”

“Sounds like he just wanted to sound important,” Ron snorts, making Hermione scowl, her face darkening.

“Fucking moron,” Darcy murmurs, sighing heavily. She thinks of Emily, how she’d been right. There’s not a shred of doubt in her mind that Stan Shunpike is no Death Eater, only an idiot. “He’s not a Death Eater, and I’m sure Scrimgeour didn’t bother to give him a fair hearing. Emily says he’s making these phony arrests to make people feel safe. All he’d have to do is check for a Dark Mark. How hard is that?”

No one has an answer to that.

Harry and Ron lead Darcy and Hermione down to the Quidditch pitch by a few yards, far enough that neither party can hear the other’s conversations. The slight drizzle has already dampened Darcy’s hair, and Hermione is delighted when she conjures an umbrella that’s large enough for the both of them to stand under.

“Professor Dumbledore hasn’t told you anything about where he’s going, has he?” Hermione asks anxiously, her eyes fixed firm upon the back of Ron’s head.

Darcy can hear the front doors of the castle open far behind them, echoing across the grounds. Laughter and chatter spills across the threshold of all the Gryffindor hopefuls as they, too, begin the journey down to the pitch. “When has Professor Dumbledore ever told me anything?” she jokes bitterly, ignoring the apologetic look Hermione gives her. “I’m positive it’s something to do with the Order. I’ll ask Remus when he gets back.”

Hermione clears her throat and, from that simple action, Darcy knows that she’s been waiting for a chance to bring up Lupin without coming across as insensitive or annoyingly curious. “Have you heard from him? Lupin?”

“In the simplest sense of the word,” Darcy sighs. “If that. The only way I know he’s alive is through these.” She fishes the Knut out of her pocket, fingering it lightly to show Hermione. Hermione takes it, looking it over. “It’s like what you used for the D.A.”

Hermione raises her eyebrows, changing the serial numbers with her thumbs. “Do you have a code or something?”

“No, not really. We just change the numbers whenever we’re thinking of each other.” Darcy smiles fondly at the Knut as Hermione continues to examine it.

“ _Oh_! It’s turning hot!” Hermione gasps, cradling the Knut in her palms as the numbers begin to move of their own accord. Her cheeks turn pink and she gives it back to Darcy. “That is . . . far more intimate than it has any right to be.”

Darcy squeezes it, waiting for it to grow cool again before pocketing it. “Well, at least we know he’s still alive.”

When they reach the pitch, they say their goodbyes and good lucks to Harry and Ron, making their way up to the tall stands for a good seat. Considering they’re all empty, Darcy thinks they’re all good seats. They sit in the Gryffindor section together beneath Darcy’s umbrella, talking idly while the newcomers begin to appear, all types of students. A few other students join Darcy and Hermione in the stands, friends of the students trying out. Mary Cottier from Slytherin has come with another Ravenclaw girl support their friend (Mary dutifully ignores Darcy as best she can), Luna Lovegood arrives with Neville Longbottom, Colin and Dennis Creevey are off to the side and armed with a camera, and Parvati Patil and Lavender Brown sit a few rows behind Darcy and Hermione, giggling behind their hands with their heads together.

“Are first years even allowed to try out?” Darcy muses, taking note of all the shaking first years that she recognizes from class. She thinks they shake even in class, as well. Regardless, there’s far too many of them. “Tell me I didn’t look so smug during seventh year.”

“You, Emily, and Gemma were the smuggest of them all,” Hermione teases, earning her a playful elbow in the ribs.

“Excuse me! Ministry of Magic worker coming through, so move your legs while I’m walking here!”

Hermione turns, horrified, by the sound of the voice making their way up the stands. Darcy, on the other hand, is absolutely delighted to see Emily rushing up a few rows and waving at them. Panting, pink-cheeked, and blonde hair damp from rain, holding a flimsy, black umbrella over her head, Emily sighs heavily when she sits down beside Darcy.

“Sorry I’m late. I overslept.” She scans the pitch for Harry and Ron, smiling adoringly. “Oh, look how _cute_ they are . . . I _love_ that Harry’s Quiddich Captain . . . Has anyone gone yet?”

“No, not yet,” Darcy says as Harry begins to split the massive group into smaller ones. Those that aren’t in the first group sit a few rows in front of the girls. As Harry tasks the first group to flying—all first years—Darcy can almost feel his frustration as he watches the first years struggle on their school issued broomsticks. Darcy reckons they’re even worse than she is at flying. “We just read about Stan Shunpike in the paper, Emily. It said they conducted a raid at his home. Did they find anything?”

“What do you think?” Emily asks bitterly. “You know what Stan’s like. I tried to appeal directly to the Minister, but they wouldn’t allow me to meet with him unless I had solid evidence against Stan being a Death Eater, and I don’t.”

“Did you tell Scrimgeour to roll Stan’s sleeve up?”

“That was my plan. But unfortunately, he’s still sitting in Azkaban, so whether or not Scrimgeour abides by my advice . . . another innocent man in prison, left with the dementors.” Emily shivers, though Darcy’s sure it has nothing to do with the slight chill and more to do with the suffocating cold that accompanies dementors. “You ready for your meeting with Cuffe?”

“Who are you meeting with?” Hermione asks, her skinny shoulder pressing against Darcy’s as he attempts to join in the conversation.

The first years all disappear rather quickly and hurriedly after their disastrous try out, and the second group mounts their broomsticks, all girls. Even from this distance, Darcy can hear them all giggling and laughing with each other, riding their brooms shakily and continually flying into one another before shrieking with laughter again.

“Barnabas Cuffe,” Darcy answers. “I’m thinking about doing some pieces for the Prophet. I’m meeting with him next Saturday.”

“Look, I just want to warn you,” Emily says. “Cuffe is . . . well, there’s really no way to say this nicely, but he’s an arsehole. He’s crass and all his does is curse constantly. But he knows what he’s doing.”

“Does he?” Darcy asks skeptically, exchanging glances with Emily. “The _Prophet_ is a piece of shite and it has been. Everyone knows it. I’m not going to put much stock into a man who’ll bend over backwards to make sure he’s publishing exactly what the Ministry wants him to print.”

“All right, so Cuffe isn’t perfect, but he’s capable. He attended a Muggle university, you know? For journalism.”

“Fascinating. Did he skip the class on separating and recognizing real journalism from smear journalism?” Both Emily and Hermione giggle behind their hands at this, but Darcy finds it less than funny and scowls at the both of them. “Oh, I’m sorry. Is the idea of Rita Skeeter smearing Harry and I so funny to you?”

Hermione stops laughing at once, her smile disappearing with an unnatural quickness and her cheeks turning pink. She looks down at the Quidditch pitch fixedly, eyes following the third group of students, who can’t seem to fly without hitting one another. More students are beginning to fill the stands now that breakfast is coming to an end, and the rejected players fill the empty benches, as well, but thankfully no one sits too close to Darcy, likely able to feel the anger and irritation pulsating off her in waves.

“I’m only saying,” Emily continues, still smiling as she closes her umbrella now that the sun has decided to peek through the rain clouds slowly moving further away from the castle grounds. “Don’t take anything he may say too personally. If he thinks you can’t handle it, he won’t let you work for the _Prophet_.”

“I’m not asking for a job. In case you’ve forgotten, I’ve already got a job. I only want to contribute a few articles.”

“Same thing to Cuffe.”

Darcy runs her eyes, Vanishing her umbrella and sighing as the sun beats down upon the top of her head. Judging by the recent weather, Darcy knows it’s going to be a brutal winter.

“You’re still coming with us afterwards to visit Hagrid, aren’t you?” Hermione asks, still looking slightly anxious about being snapped at.

Darcy sucks in a deep breath through gritted teeth. Hermione gives her a stern look, seeming to know what’s going to come. It’s not that Darcy had really forgotten about going to Hagrid’s, it’s just that . . . Darcy would much rather be somewhere other than Hogwarts, and she’d been planning on staying the remainder of the weekend at Lupin’s empty cottage, maybe cleaning it up a little or putting her feet up in front of the fire and watching television. If there’s one thing she misses most while she’s at Hogwarts, it’s definitely television.

When Darcy had often visited Lupin at his home two years ago, she had been perfectly content watching for hours while lounging on the sofa, and he would tell her constantly, “Too much television will fry your brain cells. Or so they say.”

“I don’t care,” she’d reply. “I have nineteen years of television to make up for.”

Lupin would always laugh, kiss her, and sit down with her to watch.

Darcy worries at her bottom lip, looking especially guilty when Hermione looks at her the same way Mrs. Weasley might upon discovering something she doesn’t at all agree with. “Sorry,” she murmurs, drawing the word out as if that will help her situation. “I was sort of going to head out for the weekend after tryouts. You know I’ve got _two_ houses to look after now?”

“Yes, it sounds _so_ important,” Hermione retorts with a tone seldom used with Darcy. It makes it worse when Emily titters on the other side of Darcy. “Hagrid is our friend—”

“Correction: Hagrid is _your_ friend,” Darcy says flatly. “And I don’t have anything to apologize to him for, so I think I’ll sit this one out.”

Emily hums. “Which vacation house are you going to this weekend? I’ll let Gemma know to stop by.”

“Oh! Would you really?” The prospect of seeing Gemma again makes Darcy’s heart lighter. She doesn’t fail to catch the slight disappointment in Emily’s eyes, however. Darcy clears her throat and tries to mask her excitement, despite the hammering of her heart. “I’ll be at Remus’. She should know where it is.”

Emily doesn’t have time to answer. A broad-shouldered boy Darcy recognizes as Cormac McLaggen suddenly blocks the Quidditch pitch from view. Darcy, Hermione, and Emily look at him with scrunched noses and slight frowns, observing the smug smile on his face and the way his eyes dart quickly from one girl to the other.

“Can we help you with something, McLaggen?” Darcy hisses. Cormac isn’t her favorite student—he’s never really been someone whose company she’s enjoyed. For a few early years, Cormac had entertained a crush on Emily, but after two years of rejecting his advances, Emily had finally told Cormac she thought he looked like a bulldog and he hadn’t approached her since. Until right now, and even now, he seems anxious when looking at her, as if afraid she might reach out and slap him hard across the face. “You’re blocking our view.”

Cormac allows his thick broomstick to rest across his shoulders, hanging onto it and still smiling that smug smile. Darcy itches to slap it right off his face. He’d once been a scrawny thing when he first came to Hogwarts. Half the size of his peers, Cormac has always been ready for a fight, and now that he’s twice the size of his peers, Darcy worries slightly about that aspect of him.

“Heard what happened with Nott in Potions class,” he says to Darcy.

This doesn’t amuse Darcy, who would rather talk about anything else. “Did you?” She looks him up and down, regretting it almost immediately because it seems to please him. “What position are you trying out for, anyway?”

“Keeper,” Cormac answers. “Now that Wood’s gone, and Weasley isn’t going to make it—”

“Excuse me?” Emily asks, furrowing her brow. Cormac clenches his jaw, but stands his ground. “What do you mean Ron isn’t going to make it? He hasn’t even tried out yet. He could beat you.”

Cormac laughs as if it’s all a big joke. He looks to Darcy, his smile awkward. “Come on,” he says. To her left, Darcy can feel Hermione shaking with anger. “We all know Weasley only made the team because of Potter. Isn’t that right?” He looks at Darcy almost hopefully, as if willing her to agree with him.

Emily scoffs. “Why don’t you go fuck off, McLaggen?”

Darcy lays a gentle hand on Emily’s forearm, shaking her head. “Easy, Emily. Check this out.” She looks back up at Cormac. “I’ll be sure to tell Professor Snape that he should be expecting you Monday night at eight o’clock for detention. Are you satisfied now?”

“All I did was tell the truth!” Cormac protests, flushing bright red. It makes Darcy feel slightly guilty and almost tyrannical for just handing out a detention, but she’s feeling vindictive, and Cormac has just laid an excuse to be vindictive right in her lap by talking badly about Ron. “Does giving one’s opinion warrant detentions now?”

Darcy blushes, wishing that everyone around them couldn’t hear. “Don’t you dare start with me,” she snaps, thinking of Umbridge. “Just go sit down and leave us alone.”

“Well, I’ll just talk to old Sluggy about it,” Cormac replies, becoming much more heated, bringing his broomstick down to the ground and slamming the tip of it. “I’m sure if I explain myself, he won’t make me serve that detention. There’s no way I’m serving it with Snape.”

“Do you talk to all of your teachers this way?” Emily says coldly, her arms crossed over her chest, one leg thrown over the other. “What a disrespectful little brat you are. You haven’t changed a bit, McLaggen.”

“You haven’t either.” Cormac looks Emily over critically. “Still got that stick up your arse?”

Emily flushes angrily, making to stand up, but Darcy wraps her fingers around Emily’s wrist and keeps her in her seat. “I don’t have a stick up my arse.”

Cormac has the audacity to laugh in her face. “You do.”

“I _don’t_.”

“Methinks the lady doth protest too much.”

Darcy sighs loudly. “It’s ‘the lady doth protest too much, _methinks_ ’. If you’re going to quote Shakespeare, at least quote it right.”

Cormac looks at Darcy incredulously, shaking his head. “Who the hell is Shakespeare?”

Emily grumbles to herself. “Fuck off, McLaggen.”

Another hour passes by, but it isn’t half as fun as it had been. Darcy, Hermione, and Emily stew in their anger, watching as the students cheer on others. They forget their anger when Ginny tries out for a Chaser position, and she does exceptionally well. Ginny even flies by them at the end, performing a little bow for them atop her broomstick, making them laugh and wolf-whistle. This lifts their spirits greatly, and by the end of the second hour, Harry has a team put together, just lacking a Keeper.

By the time the Keepers start trying out, Darcy’s beginning to feel nervous. And it seems her feelings are shared among both Hermione and Emily. When Cormac McLaggen stands up, bigger than any of the others there, Emily shouts at his back, “I hope you’re as good as you make yourself out to be!”

“Don’t worry,” he calls back, without even turning to look at her. “I am.”

“You’ll still never be as good as Oliver Wood!” Emily shouts, and then she sighs, leaning over Darcy to whisper to them both. “I know we’re supposed to be cheering for Ron, and I have _total_ confidence in him, of course, but are you guys just as nervous as I am?”

“A little,” Hermione confesses sheepishly, smiling at Emily.

When it’s Cormac’s turn, Darcy swears loudly as he flies up to the goalposts. He’s an excellent flier, where Darcy thinks Ron is a relatively average flier. But from watching all of their scrimmages in the Burrow’s yard, she thinks he may have gotten better . . . or she hopes. She swears again when Cormac deftly saves the first goal Ginny fires at him, and the second, and the third. Before the fourth shot is sent his way, Cormac does a loop on his broomstick before kicking it away towards Darcy, Emily, and Hermione in the stands. Emily catches it, screaming obscenities at Cormac and making the crowd laugh and shout back. She throws the Quaffle back to Ginny, who’s smiling wickedly.

“Another one and he’s a sure in,” Darcy frowns, making a mental note to never talk to Cormac McLaggen again, not that she needs to make a mental note in the first place. “Maybe Ron will make the team next year after Cormac leaves.”

Hermione shifts awkwardly beside Darcy, apologizing softly when her elbow bumps Darcy in the ribs. Darcy hardly pays attention, her heart stopping as Ginny winds up to throw the Quaffle a fifth and final time at Cormac, and just as the Quaffle leaves Ginny’s fingertips, Darcy hears a soft voice to her left whisper, “ _Confundus_.”

At once, Cormac makes to save the last goal, but he shoots off in the complete opposite direction, much to the delight of nearly everyone in the stands. Emily cackles, booing loudly with some others as Cormac curses and flies moodily towards the ground. Darcy looks at Hermione, stifling a smile.

“Are you going to give me a detention, _Professor_?” Hermione whispers, blushing furiously, but looking quite pleased with herself.

Darcy chuckles. “It’ll be our little secret.”

When Ron mounts up to take his turn, Darcy nearly jumps when Lavender Brown shouts her good luck to Ron from right behind Darcy. Emily and Hermione turn around with her to stare incredulously at Lavender, whose face is hidden behind her hands, dark blonde curls falling over her fingers. Parvati giggles, but nothing more is said, and Darcy turns back towards the pitch to watch Ron.

There are cheers of approval as Ron saves his first goal. Hermione chews nervously on her fingernails and Emily bites down hard on her lower lip, her legs bouncing up and down rapidly. A second goal is saved and Darcy wolf-whistles with her fingers in her mouth, clapping. A third goal and a wave of cheers erupt throughout the pitch. A fourth goal and Emily cups her hands around her mouth and cheers loudest of all. When Ginny lines up the last shot, Darcy, Emily, and Hermione jump to their feet as Ron swats the Quaffle away. As they cheer and clap, Darcy privately feels guilty for not having as much confidence in Ron as she should have, but she races down to the ground after Hermione all the same, eager to give congratulations before leaving Hogwarts for the weekend.

“You did brilliantly, Ron!” Hermione launches herself at Harry and Ron, flushed and grinning.

Ron smiles in a pleased sort of way, watching the girls approach. “Did you see the fourth one? Blimey, I thought I was going to miss it . . .”

“You did great,” Darcy smiles. The prospect of having Harry and Ron and Ginny on the Gryffindor team is an exciting one, for Darcy now has multiple reasons to drag herself down to the pitch during games. As much as she loves Harry with all her heart, if Cormac had made the team, Darcy doesn’t think she would have bothered. “With a little practice, looks like the team will take home the Cup this year.”

Hermione’s happy demeanor suddenly fades and she crosses her arms, waiting until it’s just the four of them before speaking again. “You know Darcy’s not coming with us to Hagrid’s?”

“Come off it!” Ron groans. “We’re going to need you there to help back up our case.”

Darcy shrugs, not really feeling all that bad about her decision. “I’m sure you’ll do just fine on your own. I’m actually going to pack some things now, so I’ll walk you back up to the castle.”

“You’re such a rat, Hermione,” Emily snorts, bidding everyone farewell and planting a wet kiss on top of Ron’s head, making his ears turn red. “Let Darcy do as she pleases without you making her feel guilty about it.”

“Are you even allowed to leave Hogwarts as you please?” Harry asks her curiously, raising an eyebrow.

Darcy curses him mentally, mostly because she isn’t really sure of the answer. “Professor Dumbledore will know where I’ve gone,” she answers airily, waving an impatient hand at him, but not entirely convinced herself. She’s sure Snape would throw a fit if he found out she was leaving whenever she wanted (would he still care at all? why would he?) ( _shut the fuck up!_ ), but she’s also sure that the others could narrow down their options as to where she’s gone. “If anyone asks, I’m going to stay at Remus’ for the rest of the weekend. Clean up a little before he gets back, watch some television.”

“Any word?” Harry asks again, this time looking eager.

“None. But he’s been gone for longer, hasn’t he?” Darcy doesn’t fail to notice the sad expressions on everyone’s faces and their lack of an answer. “Look . . . I’m going to . . . I’m going to get going. I’ll see you guys later.”

* * *

“ _Ah_ . . .” Darcy inhales sharply through her teeth, peeling off her shirt and fingering the violent scars on her shoulder. She rolls her shoulder in the newly cleaned mirror, aligning her fingers with them and then brushing her fingertips over the smaller scars that litter her chest, tiny white things left by his teeth when marking her with love bites. Hardly noticeable against her fair skin, not painful in the slightest, but a reminder of how much she missed him.

Lightning strikes nearby—Darcy hears the cracking of a tree and a loud clap of thunder that shakes the cottage and makes the window panes rattle. The bathroom light flickers, and then the only sounds are the howling of the wind outside and the rapping of fat raindrops on the roof and windows. The scars on her shoulder twinge and she winces, rubbing them with a firm finger, hoping pressure will relieve the slight pain.

Darcy’s used to them twinging every so often, usually at unsuspecting times. Sometimes they give a throb when she wakes from a particularly troubling nightmare, other times they seem to predict a storm coming, and on full moons or especially close to full moons, they actually ache, a dull ache that borders on annoying instead of painful. For the most part, she’s learned to ignore it, to forget that they’re even there, to tune out the irritating pain whenever it begins to happen.

Tonight, however, they _hurt_.

When she had arrived at the cottage early afternoon, the sky had almost been black and it had been pouring, soaking her nearly to the bone just from the short walk to the front door, and she’d dropped the key at least three times with her hands all slippery and wet. Her shoulder had twinged then, but she’d thought nothing of it.

Immediately, she’d turned the television on and set to cleaning. His clothes were scattered all over the bed, and Darcy had dug around in the bathroom for a small sewing kit and spent some time on the sofa patching some of his clothes before folding them and putting them where they belong, finding his stash of filthy pictures of her in the process.

“Oh my _God_ ,” she’d murmured to herself, flipping through them all, not even able to remember how he’d gotten ahold of some of them.

Then the lightning and thunder had come, and each rumble had been pain shooting from her shoulder down to her long fingers. When the storm had traveled just a few miles from cottage, the pain had lessened, but the scars seemed fresh, tight and soft.

It’s now, looking in the mirror at her bare torso, that she cries. The scars on her shoulder are puffy and inflamed now, the wide and uneven oval scar on her arm shining in the awful fluorescent lighting of the bathroom, the bite marks all over her chest and breasts pronounced, the worst one a few inches long at the top of her left breast that had been given after a long night of drinking and flirting, culminating in a particularly violent bout of sex that Darcy had relished, but felt was very unlike them.

Remus Lupin, who flinches at the sight of Darcy’s shoulder, who had spent _months_ figuring out Darcy’s threshold for pain when they were fucking, who becomes near wolfish at the mention of a new bruise or scrape or brush on her body—his mouth has scarred Darcy’s milky flesh, and it surprises her. Her love bites fade, of course, small bruises that make his chest and neck look as if he’s been in a fist fight, but his bites are hard, breaking skin and drawing blood and leaving scars, making her cry out and go limp in his arms when he peppers them with soft kisses afterwards.

When she’d asked him once why he does it if he despises the scars so much that are on her shoulder, he’d told her simply, “These ones are to remind you that you’re mine.” Darcy hadn’t complained, nor had she been offended by his answer, but it was curious, even if she didn’t say anything else about it.

She doesn’t know why it bothers her now, besides the fact that, if she were to ever sleep with anyone else, they’d take one look at her chest and have to face the realization that someone else had her first, that someone else took it upon themselves to mark her up like an animal. Darcy loves them—truly, she does—and she loves Lupin more than she can say, but the sight of her looking so . . .

The lights shut off without warning, leaving Darcy left in complete darkness and silence as thunder booms directly above her. Her shoulder hurts still, and it isn’t longer than two minutes until the lights spring back to life, making her squint as her eyes adjust again.

Darcy tries to recall if anything had changed after her encounter with Lupin the werewolf. She had preferred her meat rarer, but she’d always enjoyed a medium rare steak, so that could be nothing . . . just a change in her taste buds . . . her ‘grown-up palette’ (as Gemma had once called it during a discussion about her newfound love of peas) coming in . . . maybe it is related to her scarring, but maybe not . . .

And then there’s the weird coincidences with the storms, almost as if she can sense them. Truly, it’s more of a change of scent in the air, the smell of a storm, the smell of rain. But old people always claim they can feel a storm coming in the way their bones and joints ache, so maybe it’s just something Darcy can’t explain. And maybe she’s always been like that and just hadn’t noticed.

But the thing that Darcy worries about most of all is the anger, the primal anger that seems to always be present, lying dormant until she’s ready for it. Her feral desire to hurt others simply because she feels hurt. Darcy feels that, before the incident and the scarring of her shoulder, she’d been kinder, softer, more innocent. Or perhaps she’d just been younger, more naive, wide-eyed, only a child.

The thoughts come quickly to her. Slapping Oliver hard across the face when he’d done nothing but proposition her (and to be fair, she had led him on slightly, so it wasn’t all his fault), humiliated that he would say something so crude while she was with Lupin. Her palm had stung for hours afterwards, and it had pleased her to see the bruising upon his face until the novelty wore off and it only made her sick.

Hitting Lupin just as hard after he’d made a nasty comment about Ludo Bagman, hitting him so hard that his entire body had reacted. Her reaction, the slap, had been completely instinctual.

Every word spat at Snape in anger (i hate you, i hate you, i hate you) all because he’d hurt her feelings. If there was someone she wanted to hurt, it was him, and Darcy hadn’t held back. Hurting Snape, making him angry, had given her some sick form of pleasure, seeing him squirm or blush or look the slightest bit hurt had made her feel triumphant and victorious, despite her protests that he quit making her feel the same way.

Darcy’s heart races and she starts to sweat, looking at herself in the mirror still. She knows that she can be downright cruel—case in point, the words she’d exchanged with Gemma at Grimmauld Place, or her desire to kiss Snape simply to spite Lupin, the unthinkable anger that had bubbled within her upon seeing Tonks’ Patronus. The constant flame that burns bright when she looks at Dumbledore and feels nothing but hatred. The way she had wanted to throttle Lockhart upon seeing him again in St Mungo’s, the way she had stepped on Nott’s fingers until they broke, the way she wanted to hurt Theodore in Potions. 

But mild cruelty (is it mild? or am i only telling myself that to feel better about it? to justify it?) is nothing . . . she’s lived a hard life and has been forced to deal with inconveniences, so of course she’d be angry. It’s only natural, and with Sirius dying and that wound still terribly fresh, it’s completely normal to feel angry. Once she heals, once she betters herself, once Lupin is back, she’ll be all right. The anger will slowly subside.

But what Darcy had done to Bellatrix was not mild cruelty. That anger was near animalistic, she thinks. Darcy hadn’t really felt apart of it, her anger had taken over and pushed her aside, climbed out her throat to shout _Crucio!_ the way that she did. She hadn’t been herself, she was traumatized, she’d just watched Sirius die . . . it wasn’t her, it _couldn’t_ be.

_What if it’s not me at all? What if it has something to do with these scars? What if they’re changing me?_

(but what if it _is_ you?)

_That’s not possible. I’m not a bad person._

Darcy lifts her hand to comb her fingers through her hair, realizing that her hand is shaking. She can see the droplets of sweat beading at her hairline, her pulse pounding in her ears.

_What if I’m becoming a monster?_

(wouldn’t that make Remus a monster, too?)

_No_ , she tells herself. _He’s not a monster. He’s just better at controlling his anger. At controlling the wolf._

It would explain his uncharacteristic (mild) violence and possessiveness in bed, his unrestrained and dominant behavior that had startled her at the beginning. Sometimes, before she’d come to understand him as she does now, she’d cry herself to sleep after he’d fuck her so angrily simply because she thought he was truly angry with _her_.

“It’s only a coincidence,” Darcy whispers to herself, palming her shoulder. The scars feel almost warm to the touch, warmer than the skin around it, and her sweaty hand slides over them. It would be nice to be able to blame these wounds and scars for who she is, but she also feels that’s avoiding the real problem. “That’s all it is. Coincidences.”

(and if it’s not?)

“I don’t know.”

(does it shame you? to be like him? to want to hurt people? to be so angry?)

“No,” she tells herself again, with less confidence than she’d hoped for. Darcy takes a step away from the mirror, not wanting to look at herself for any longer. To sit in front of the television now and fry her brain cells would be a blessing. “But I am afraid.”


	13. Chapter 13

“I missed you.”

(I missed you, too)

Lupin’s face looms just above hers, so soft and so open and so warm. His skin lacks any scars, blemishes, only home to a neatly trimmed beard that’s tinted red unlike the shaggy brown mop on his head. There is nothing around them but for the source of the light that makes shadows flicker and dance upon his face, but she doesn’t know where the light is coming from or what she’s laying on.

“I hate it when you’re gone,” she whispers, her palm lightly cupping his cheek. Darcy drinks in the sight of him, so beautiful, so comforting. With his arms propping himself up, coming to rest on either side of her, Darcy feels safe, feeling as if nothing will ever hurt her again.

It’s then that he lowers himself to kiss her, his right hand lifting from beside her and coming to rest on her shoulder. It’s then that Darcy realizes that, while Lupin’s skin is unmarred and smooth, Darcy’s scars still remain. The ones on her shoulder, the smaller ones all over her chest and breasts, and when she touches her face with her fingertips, she finds there are scars there, as well. On her face and littering her arms, and there on her right arm is the scar Theodore Nott gave her, and on her left forearm is a massive bite mark that throbs suddenly, making her cry out.

(It’s all right)

Lupin’s mouth doesn’t move when he talks, and the voice is so soft that she isn’t entirely sure that it’s his voice at all she’s hearing. She looks up into his face, shaking violently, and he kisses each place on her chest that he’s marked her with his teeth. When his teeth graze over her skin, they feel sharper than usual, longer, and with his hair inches from her face, Darcy is struck with the realization of how good he smells—his arousal masks the slight smell of fear, his shampoo and cologne mingling with the musky scent of sweat. She closes her eyes, chest heaving, realizing after a moment then he’s stopped kissing her.

Darcy allows her eyes to flutter back open, half-afraid that it won’t be Lupin above her anymore, but Nott. But he’s still there, still looking at her with a darkened and lustful expression. And she’s horrified when her mouth begins to water (had his shirt always been off? when did he take his shirt off?), and she craves the taste of his flesh, the muscle on his broad shoulder. She wants to sink her teeth into his skin, to feel him writhe between her teeth.

“It’s all right.” This time, Lupin whispers it in her ear, as if he knows what she’s thinking. It unnerves her, making her shiver.

He tilts his head slightly, opening up the crook of his neck to her. Darcy hesitates, looking at the clean piece of skin, an animalistic urge to taste him taking hold of her. She lifts her head and kisses his neck before sinking her teeth into him, breaking his skin with the edges of her teeth, warm—almost hot—blood flooding into her mouth, staining her teeth, dripping down her chin like she’s some kind of animal. He tastes so sweet, his skin slightly salty from sweat. Darcy finds herself almost deaf to Lupin’s protests, his cries of pain, for her own pulse throbs in her ears, her heart beating frantically as she bites harder—

(Stop, please . . . it hurts so badly . . .)

Darcy pulls away from him, horrified, but it’s not his face looking down at her. Her breath hitches—she’s looking at herself, but it’s not her, it can’t be her . . . her other self’s pupils are blown out, mostly black with a small ring of bright green barely visible around it, and her chin is stained bright red with blood, her lips the same color, as if she’s wearing lipstick. The other Darcy sits up, straddling her own waist below, and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand before she smiles, and the sight is terrifying—normally white teeth are now red, and they’re not straight, but crooked and elongated, her canine teeth like fangs.

( _No_!)

Darcy wakes in a panic, a kink in her neck from the way she’d slept on the sofa without a pillow. The fire has long since gone out, leaving the cottage bone cold, even beneath the blanket she’s tangled up in. The storm has gone, too—sunshine streams in through the mismatched curtains, no wind to be heard. The television is still on, playing reruns of a cartoon Dudley used to watch when he was little, the volume so low that she can’t even hear the dialogue. She lays back down, staring up at the ceiling, attempting to will her racing heart to slow, attempting to will the images from her dream from her mind completely.

It hadn’t seemed right going to sleep in Lupin’s bed without him there. It felt dirty, somehow, like overstepping boundaries put in place. Yes, he had given her his key to come and go as she pleased, and yes, Lupin likely would not have seen a problem with Darcy sleeping in his bed without him there, but it still makes her wary. It’s not her house, not the way that number twelve, Grimmauld Place is, but it is home in a way that Sirius’ house is not anymore, and she’d rather sleep on the sofa here and wake uncomfortable than stay the weekend at Hogwarts or at Grimmauld Place.

She touches her teeth, checking to make sure they’re no longer fangs, rubbing at her canines to make sure they’re regular sized. Lupin’s brief, but sweet kisses had felt so real that it makes her ache for him, and she can still taste the lingering metallic taste of blood in her mouth, but when she wipes her lips with her hand, her hand comes back clean, damp from the sweat that coats her body. Checking her watch, Darcy realizes that she won’t be able to fall back asleep, instead getting up and cleaning up her makeshift bed.

Once she starts a new fire, showers, dresses appropriately for cold weather, rummages through Lupin’s liquor cabinet (which, unfortunately, is filled with nearly empty bottles, not nearly enough to get her drunk), drinks her spiked coffee while watching television (taking perverted pleasure in directly disobeying Madam Pomfrey’s instructions), Darcy proceeds to tear through her bag. She’d made plans for herself today, her and her newfound freedom, and she intends on going through with them, but she also isn’t sure when Gemma is going to stop by, if at all, and would be loathe to miss her visit.

Darcy does have a considerable amount of Muggle money leftover from her stay with Lupin over the summer, the perfect amount to buy some things for his home to make it that much more welcoming when he comes back. Deciding that Diagon Alley would be a very stupid place to go by herself, Darcy settles on the market Aunt Petunia had brought her to two summers ago, albeit it feels more like ten years ago, a whole other lifetime ago. She can’t even begin to imagine the joy it might bring her to be there again, to smell the flowers, to buy food for a homemade supper before returning to Hogwarts, to buy some decorations to hang on the walls of Lupin’s home.

And there, at the very bottom of her bag, a scribbled telephone number on a torn piece of paper. She holds it up to her face, examining the handwriting. She had told herself, promised herself, that she wouldn’t call. The last thing she wants to do is hear their voices and burst out crying. They were just a chapter in her life for a fortnight, and when she’d left their house that last night, she had wanted to move on. She hadn’t wanted to dwell on the Tuttles, on a relationship with parent-like figures that would just hurt her in the end. Darcy rolls the paper between her fingers and folds it, tucking it into her jacket pocket just as someone knocks on the door.

“Open up,” comes Gemma’s voice, just as Darcy reaches for her wand. “It’s me.”

Darcy hurdles over the back of the sofa, pulling open the door, and throwing herself at Gemma. Arms wrapped around each other, they dance over the threshold, and Gemma shuts the front door with a swift kick. Holding her out at arm’s length, Darcy’s smile fades, knowing that Gemma will likely not stay long. She’s still dressed in that awful green color of her St Mungo’s robes, dark hair pulled back to reveal those several, glittering earrings lining her ears. Emily had once told Darcy that Gemma’s parents give her brand new diamond earrings every Christmas, something Emily had always envied.

“Time for a coffee?” Darcy asks, trying her best to mask her disappointment. She tries to tell herself that she doesn’t have anything to be disappointed about at all today—she’s free to do whatever she wishes, with no one hounding her about staying put, with no one to chastise her for going to the market. It will be a perfect Sunday, and Gemma’s brief company should be enough.

“Yeah, cheers.” Gemma seats herself at the kitchen counter, watching Darcy for a moment as she fusses with the coffee press. Her eyes begin to wander about the living room, taking in the moth-eaten sofa, the clashing curtains, the television playing cartoons. “I’ve never been inside before. Only waited outside while he fetched something.”

“Well, it’s no Smythe Manor, I’m sure.” Darcy glances around, feeling rather proud and fond of the cottage. She’s made many happy memories here, has always felt safe here, and the cottage has always been quite kind to her in some strange way, like protecting her from a raging storm and making her feel quite welcome at the same time.

Gemma gives her a sharp look, clearly affronted. “I’m not judging it.” She accepts the mug of coffee from Darcy almost warily. “So . . . this is like, your home now?”

Darcy blushes furiously. “No,” she says, a bit too quickly. “No, I’m just taking care of it while Remus is gone.”

Almost instinctively, Gemma smiles wickedly, brown eyes twinkling over the lip of her mug. “So . . . if I were to open his dresser drawers, you wouldn’t have any clothes stashed away?”

“They’re emergency outfits,” Darcy insists, her cheeks stinging with embarrassment. She doesn’t even know why the prospect of Gemma thinking she lives with Lupin is so shameful. It’s not, in the slightest. In fact, Darcy would do anything for him to make the offer, to make the move permanent. Even in this run down cottage, Darcy wants to be here forever, to wake here every morning, but something about admitting it outloud makes her blush.

Gemma’s smile widens slowly. “What about perfume? Shampoo? If I were to use the bathroom, would I find things in there that a grown man certainly wouldn’t use or need?”

“I don’t live here,” Darcy says again, and this time her answer takes on a sharper tone. “I told you, I’m just taking care of the place while he’s gone.”

Gemma takes the steaming mug of coffee that Darcy offers her, still smiling. It’s infuriating, but Darcy loves Gemma too much to say anything or to ask her to stop. “Plans for today? Em said you were originally planning on molding into the sofa.”

“Change of plans. I’m going to the market,” Darcy replies, resting her elbows on the countertop and sighing. “Thought I’d surprise myself with dinner tonight. You’d never think it, but Hogwarts food does get old after . . . how many years has it been now?”

They both chuckle lightly, sipping at their coffee. Gemma scrunches her nose, spluttering and choking.

“Sorry, there’s no cream. We threw away all the perishables before Remus left,” Darcy grins. “There’s sugar, but I couldn’t tell you for the life of me how old it is. Or maybe you’d prefer a shot of firewhisky?”

Gemma nods emphatically, as if this is everything she could have hoped for, holding up her mug as Darcy empties the bottle into her mug. When she tastes her coffee again, she still scrunches her nose, but gives Darcy a thumbs-up to let her know it’s manageable. “So,” she says in a very business-like fashion. “Tell me everything. Two weeks is enough time to get into plenty of trouble, isn’t it?”

Darcy decides to start light, feeling like diving right into the heavier things would be too dramatic. “Ron’s secured his spot as Keeper on the Gryffindor Quidditch team. Tryouts were yesterday. Bloody nightmare, too—nearly half the school turned up.” She frowns, a crease appearing between her furrowed brows. “Do you remember Cormac McLaggen?”

Gemma doesn’t miss a beat. “Git.”

“You _do_ remember.” Darcy shakes her head. “He tried out for Keeper, too, after he made a big show of things in front of Emily, Hermione, and I.”

“You’re telling me that Ron Weasley outflew Cormac McLaggen?”

“I said nothing of the sort,” Darcy says, another smile tugging at the corners of her lips. She knows that she’d promised Hermione to keep her secret, but Gemma is the perfect person to tell, and Darcy knows Gemma will appreciate it. “Ron did save five of five shots thrown at him, and Cormac would have saved five, but Hermione Confunded him on the last one.”

Gemma’s face instantly turns into one of pure delight, an open-mouthed smile glued to her face, eyes wide and glittering with mischief. She looks so much like an excited puppy that it makes Darcy laugh. “Amazing,” Gemma sighs contently, drinking deeply from her mug without even pulling a face this time. “I knew that she’d turn out like me. Being a prefect and all.”

“It was only an extreme circumstance. Hermione’s quite good at adhering to every rule in the rule book.”

“Is she?”

“No, not really . . . but if she does break a rule, it’s always for the greater good.”

“Ah, like using a Time-Turner to rescue a wanted criminal by flying a hippogriff around the grounds?”

“See?” Darcy asks innocently, shrugging. “For the greater good. But God forbid you have something from Fred and George’s joke shop around her.”

“You’ve got to teach her how to pick out students who have more interesting contraband.” Gemma points a serious finger at Darcy. “You could probably convince her to pass off confiscated alcohol to you. You’d never have to spend money to get drunk unless you really wanted to.”

Darcy laughs again. “Look, I love Hermione, and the prospect of free alcohol is far more tempting than you know, but the day Hermione begins going on an alcohol confiscating rampage will be a sad day at Hogwarts. We’re lucky she wasn’t a prefect while we were there.”

Gemma titters, shaking her head. “Gatecrash any prefect bathroom parties yet?”

“Do you think me so cruel?” Darcy asks, setting her mug down and running a hand through her still damp hair. “I thought I’d leave the gatecrashing to Snape, actually. He’s more the type.”

“And yet . . . Snape never once bothered to break up any of our parties. Think it had anything to do with you being one of the attendants?”

“He would have been delighted to catch me, I’m sure. Even now, he can’t resist giving me a stern talking to every so often.” Darcy leans in closer to Gemma over the counter. “I think he gets off on it.”

“Wouldn’t doubt it.” Gemma makes an impatient wave of her hand, still clutching the mug tight in her free hand. “All right, so—Ron made the Quidditch team, Snape is still absolutely taken with you. What else?”

Darcy glares pointedly at Gemma, who smiles in a very teasing manner, clearly picking up why Darcy’s glaring in the first place. Darcy softens, completely mentally unprepared to go on. “Theodore Nott spilled potion on me—well, he knocked his potion over onto me and it nearly ate through my arm. I’ve got a scar. Want to see?”

Gemma puts her mug down, surprisingly nonchalant about the entire thing. “Hell yes,” she says, and then, as if just now comprehending what Darcy’s said. Her dark eyes go wide as saucers, and she looks horrified. As Darcy is in the process of shedding her jacket, Gemma’s hand darts out to grab her wrist. “Wait, _what_?”

Darcy tells Gemma the story of what had happened that day in Potions class, and Gemma’s eyes flash with dangerous anger.

“That fucking prick,” Gemma hisses, allowing Darcy to roll up her sleeve to reveal the shiny scar on her forearm. Gemma examines it carefully, brushing her thumbs over it, treating Darcy as if she’s just another patient. “At least he’s gone now.”

“Gone?” Darcy scoffs. “Snape gave him a few detentions and that’s it.”

Gemma blinks in surprise. “What do you mean Snape gave him a few detentions? Are you fucking serious?”

Darcy nods, eyebrows raised.

Setting down her coffee mug on the counter, Gemma places a hand on Darcy’s shoulder, looking apologetic. “Look, we’re not done talking about this, but I have to go. We’ll meet sometime next week? I’ll talk to Em about it.”

Darcy is hit with a wave of disappointment. Her heart sinks all the way into her churning stomach. There’s so much more she wants to tell Gemma, and she wants to hear what it’s been like at St Mungo’s while they smoke cigarettes together. She doesn’t say any of this, however. “Right. Sounds good.”

“I’m sorry, Darcy. I’ve already been late once this week. I promise, we’ll catch up, all right?”

Once Gemma is gone, Darcy takes a few minutes to compose herself, slowly gathering her things together in a small satchel. Emily had offered to replace it with a new purse when they’d last been together in Hogsmeade, but a purse would make her feel too much like Aunt Petunia.

She’s reminded of the year after graduating Hogwarts, of Emily putting so much distance between them so quickly. Darcy had hardly seen her that year, but Gemma had always put herself near Darcy, out of sheer love. She doesn’t want Gemma to do the same as Emily had—doesn’t want to see less and less of Gemma, and Darcy briefly wonders how much of Gemma’s absence can be attributed to the danger of being spotted with her by Death Eaters or sympathizers in the first place.

Finally, Darcy leaves, locking the front door behind her and feeling very much at home. Part of her feels that it’s as if the house is hers, as if it is her home, and she traps the key in her palm with her fingers. The other part of her wants nothing more than to promise the cottage she’ll be back, that she won’t be going to Hogwarts tonight, that she’ll keep it clean and she’ll make sure her scent is on the pillows and sheets for when Lupin returns. But she quickly pushes the thought from her mind and carries on, Disapparating a few yards from the front door with a sigh.

She arrives a block or so from the market, where Aunt Petunia had parked when they had come together. Hidden behind a brick building, Darcy steps out into the sunshine, looking around. No one seems to give her a second glance as she joins the throng of people walking up and down the street, but she suddenly wishes she would have come looking a little more discreet, perhaps with a wide brim hat that could cast half of her face in shadow, or maybe wearing sunglasses to keep her eyes hidden from view, and she can’t help but think of what happened the last time she went out on her own . . .

No, she won’t think about that. She won’t think about Sirius.

Darcy flings herself into a nearby telephone booth, slamming the door shut and looking around again. Not one pair of eyes seems to be fixed on her, and she turns her back to the busy street and holds the receiver to her ear, fumbling in her bag for the number and enough money to make the call. She drops the coins in and punches in the numbers quickly, unable to avoid looking over her shoulder again as the line rings on the other end.

It rings for what seems to be several long minutes, and then Darcy’s heart gives a painful ache as she hears the feminine voice on the other end of the telephone.

“ _You’ve reached Lena and Brian Tuttle. We aren’t available to take your call right now, but please leave a message so we can get back to you_.”

There’s a long beep, and Darcy pauses, closing her eyes and resting her forehead against the wall of the booth. “Hey, it’s me. Darcy,” she begins. “I’m calling from a telephone booth right now. I guess I just wanted to say hi. So . . . hi.” She hangs up then, feeling it’s a sorry message.

Darcy looks at the receiver for a long time, and then picks it up once more, forcing coins into the slot and dialing the number again. When their voicemail gives answer, she tries again.

“Hi, it’s Darcy again. I just wanted to say . . .” She rubs her temples, unsure of what to say. “I, er . . .” The silence is deafening on the other end. “I guess I’ve been having a hard time. I’ve been feeling rather lonely. Just thought it would be nice to . . . hear your voices again. Um . . . I’ll try you again when I’m able. Might not be for a little while, but . . . oh, I got a typewriter. My brother and friend bought it for an early birthday gift, and I’ve been getting better at using it. And I’m kind of seeing someone now, but . . . there’s some distance that makes it hard, but . . . he’s coming home soon, I think. I don’t really know when, but I feel like it’ll be soon. Maybe you could meet him one day. I think you would like him. He’s smart and . . . he’s so clever and handsome, and he’s so good to me . . . so, _so_ good to me. He makes me happy, and I . . . I don’t know.” Darcy mentally kicks herself. “I should go now. Good-bye.”

She nearly runs from the telephone booth, embarrassed.

Upon entering the market, however, Darcy’s heart becomes a little lighter. Of all the things Darcy has missed while cooped up at Privet Drive or Hogwarts or Grimmauld Place or the Burrow, Darcy has missed shopping—shopping for anything, buying whatever she feels like, the feeling of being normal.

The stalls have changed somewhat, she notices, but everything she needs is still available. Darcy buys herself an ice cream, wanders past a few jewelry stands before catching sight of a beautiful watch, one with a thin, leather strap and a large, rounded watch face. The numbers are small ticks around the circle in a very minimalist fashion. She buys the watch, a scotch egg, an antique picture frame, a pair of bookends, completely forgetting that she’d came for food in order to make herself a nice dinner.

She stops by a large flower stand, headed by a very fragile looking old woman. “See anything you like?”

“Oh, these are just _beautiful_ ,” Darcy says breathlessly, regarding the wrapped bouquets with delight. “Is that heather in that one?”

“Yes,” the woman says, picking up the bouquet. “And some daffodils sure to bloom fully now that winter is inching nearer.”

“Could I buy one?” Darcy is already digging around in her bag for some money before the question leaves her.

“This one?”

“Yes, ma’am, please.” Fumbling with her other shopping bags, Darcy had a hard time retrieving her money. Patient as the woman is, Darcy blushes in spite of herself. “Sorry. Give me one moment.”

“I’ll pay.”

Darcy tenses at the sound of the voice. A long-fingered, pale white hand reaches past her, placing more than enough money on the countertop. The woman hesitates, looking to Darcy for some form of guidance, clutching the flowers to her chest. Darcy turns to find herself looking into the face of Severus Snape, not quite furious, but not looking exactly happy to see her. Or maybe that’s just the way he always looks.

“What are you doing here?” she hisses at him, feeling a surge of anger. “Did Gemma tell you I was here?”

“This man bothering you, miss?” the woman asks quietly.

Snape lifts his eyebrows, looking half-affronted. His lips tighten, and Darcy knows he’s holding back some clever remark. She looks from him the woman, tension tight in her chest. Her desire to have Snape leave is great, but she knows that she’ll never hear the end of it.

“No, he’s all right,” Darcy sighs, as Snape takes the flowers and the woman makes a grab for the money.

Snape turns to Darcy, holding out the flowers for her. “Let’s walk,” he says softly, almost dangerously, touching her elbow and leading her away.

She almost runs away then, but knows it would be stupid. Her anger about Theodore Nott’s lack of punishment is still fresh, and the idea that her best friend had given her whereabouts up to Snape is humiliating. Regardless, Darcy also knows it’s likely better to get everything over with quickly, even if it will be unpleasant. She just has to not look at him, because looking at him makes her insides tighten, makes her jaw clench tight. But she can’t help herself. She looks at him abruptly, slowing her pace to get a good look at him, because he surprises her.

His dark hair still hangs lank on either side of his face, tucked back slightly to reveal more of his face. His sallow skin and gaunt face and pointed chin, hooked nose and black eyes—these features of his have not changed since Darcy’s first year at Hogwarts. He had been a much younger man back then, not even thirty, and he still had been able to command a room’s silence with a single look, was still able to maintain a composure of confidence that Darcy lacks.

But something about him is different now, and Darcy thinks it has much to do with the way he’s dressed. Clad in black—always black—Snape has come without his robes, dressed in a two-piece suit with a black shirt beneath the jacket, buttoned up nearly to his throat. The suit fits well against his lanky body, and yet gives way to what seems to be a relatively _fit_ body. Though Darcy doesn’t want to say anything nice to him right now, too stubborn to be anything but angry with him.

Snape, noticing that she’s not at his side, stops in the middle of an aisle. Someone nearly runs right into him and he scowls, side-stepping someone else who doesn’t find him at all intimidating, shoulder-checking him as the man passes Snape. Snape stumbles, his cheeks coloring as he is pushed closer to Darcy. For a moment, they both look each other up and down, and Darcy can’t believe that she’s never seen Snape out of his teaching robes, that he hasn’t dressed this way ever before when it suits him so well. Blushing furiously when she realizes Snape’s eyes are moving slowly down her long legs, Darcy tries to hide as much as her body as she can behind her shopping bags.

“Who did you call from the booth earlier?” Snape asks—or more like demands—of her. “Before you came in here. Who did you speak to?”

Darcy blushes harder, frowning, lowering her voice to keep passing shoppers from listening to them. She’s sure she and Snape make for a very odd couple, drawing plenty of unwanted attention. “You’ve been watching me. You’ve been following me,” she snaps, feeling her heart leap.

“Of course I’ve been watching you,” Snape retorts, as if this makes him so much smarter than her. “Have you forgotten that we’re in the midst of a war, girl?” He takes her by the elbow again, his grip almost painful, and he pulls her out of the crowd, over by a hat stand where he immediately begins holding some hats up to Darcy. She hates that he has the same idea, but she keeps quiet while he pays for a floppy hat that he immediately puts on top of her head. “Good. The last thing we need is someone recognizing you.”

“As if a hat will make me invisible,” Darcy grumbles, still peeved that Snape doesn’t seem the least bit abashed for confessing to watching and following her. “I haven’t forgotten. No one knows me here, and no one would think to look for me here. Why are you wearing a suit?”

“Is that your polite little lady way of telling me it’s dreadful? Because I’m going to tell you now—I have little patience for your word games.”

“I said nothing of the sort,” Darcy replies, bristling. “And I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

Snape’s lip curls. He doesn’t speak again until he near drags her from the market, back out into the fresh air. She protests loudly, reminding him that she’d come here for food and is leaving without any at all. Snape doesn’t seem to care; he pulls her down a narrow alleyway and pushes her up against the wall, causing several of her bags and her flowers to fall to the ground. Tears spring immediately to her eyes, Snape’s left hand pinning her shoulder to the brick wall behind her.

“You have a lot of nerve coming here alone, especially considering what happened the last time you decided to venture out into London unsupervised,” Snape says in a low voice, his face very close to hers. Darcy turns her face away from him, still able to feel his hot breath on her cheek. His teeth are gritted, nostrils flared, looking absolutely mad. “Do you want Lucius Malfoy to find you? Do you want to lead these people directly to the ones you love?”

“I just wanted to go to the market,” she counters, looking him in the eyes again and putting venom in her tone to match his.

“You are insufferable,” he growls. “Arrogant enough to believe you can do whatever you wish, reckless in every sense of the word, and your inability to follow orders is the most insufferable thing about you.”

“Why does it matter so much to you where I go or what I do?” Darcy snaps, struggling under his grip. She drops the rest of her bags and squirms, grabbing her wand and sending shockwaves of bright blue light through Snape’s hand. He cries out and retracts his hand, looking more furious. “Why don’t you go tell your Death Eaters friends I’m here now? Or have you already?”

“How _dare_ you presume—” Snape begins, forcing himself to break off. He curls both hands into fists, an impressive and intimidating sight as he corners her with the all black suit on. “While the Headmaster is indisposed, it is my job to make sure that you are not collected by my . . . _colleagues_ —” He spits the word at her, as if it disgusts him, as if the word itself is bitter in his mouth. “—and you are making that job very difficult.”

“It’s your job, is it?” Darcy asks, gathering all of her things in her arms again. Feeling ready to burst with things she’s been wanting to say for months now, Darcy has to take a deep breath to steady herself. She inches closer to him, their chests nearly touching, faces far closer than they have any right to be. But Darcy is not afraid of him, and she hasn’t been for a long time. “What will they do if they find me? Kill me? I’m not afraid to die, Professor Snape.”

“Kill you? That would be a mercy,” Snape replies, and his tone sends a chill down Darcy’s spine. “To spare or to kill you, the Dark Lord has no use for you. You are a girl old enough to be wedded and bedded to some pureblood boy. And if the Dark Lord is not satisfied by that option, I’m sure he’d throw you to the likes of Nott if he _begged_ hard enough like the pathetic piece of scum he is.”

“I can’t have children,” Darcy says, unsure of why that’s the first response that comes to her lips. The idea frightens her, and she’s sure that’s Snape’s intention, wanting to keep her at Hogwarts. “You know that.”

“And what do you think will happen then? A pretty young girl unable to conceive, and men who desire her?”

Darcy falters, tongue darting out to wet her lips. “You’re lying.”

“Am I? Do you want to stick around to find out?”

She looks away from him again, swallowing hard. Snape stands up straighter, seemingly triumphant, but Darcy hates him for it. “I want Theodore Nott expelled from Hogwarts for what he did to me.”

“I can make no promises—”

Something in Darcy snaps, and she looks at Snape once more, glad to see him look mildly shocked at her expression. “I will _not_ be made a fool of!”

Snape gathers his dignity, brushing off the front of his jacket. “That was never my intention.”

Darcy scoffs. “Never your intention?” she repeats, feeling tears prickle at her eyes again. “Every time we speak, you make it a point to make a fool of me.” She places her bags on the damp ground again, taking off her jacket in order to show Snape the scar on her arm. He averts his eyes quickly after seeing it for a second or less. “Look at it. Every time I see this, I have to be reminded of the Hall of Prophecy, of Theodore’s father rubbing against me as if I _wanted_ it.”

Snape blinks. “He what?”

Darcy doesn’t repeat herself, nor does she answer. She only stands there with tears in her eyes, hoping he’ll understand her meaning. And he does—or so it seems. Snape’s face contorts with anger, eyes flashing as he realizes what she’s saying. And then his face softens abruptly. He reaches out to touch her without thinking, hesitating as his fingers extend to wrap around her arm.

“I don’t . . . know what to say,” he says awkwardly. “Though I’m sure it will hardly be comforting to you, I assure you that no such thing will happen again, so long as you listen to me.”

“And what would you have of me?” Darcy asks, not wanting to hear his answer. “Lock myself in my rooms at Hogwarts to avoid being killed? Or worse, according to you—raped? What kind of life is that?”

“I know it is not the life you would choose, but it is one that will keep you safe.” Snape lowers his hand back to his side. “I need you to trust me, Darcy. If I know that we trust each other—”

“Mutual trust requires mutual respect. I find it hard to believe you respect me as much as you pretend to.”

This remark has struck a nerve, she’s noticed. He stays quiet for a moment, as if waiting to see if she’s finished, before repeating in a very soft voice, “If we trust each other—”

“Do you trust me?”

“To a certain degree, yes,” he answers shortly, but she wonders if it’s the honest truth or not. “However, I do not trust you to follow directions, which is why I made it clear that, if you were to leave the castle, precautions must be taken.”

“How long have these precautions been in place?” Darcy doesn’t want to know the answer, but he tells her anyway.

“Was the scotch egg worth it, Darcy?”

Darcy feels her cheeks coloring. “You could have told me.” She wonders if Emily had known someone would be there, if she had a hand in letting Snape know where they were going. “Besides, how am I to trust you? I want to, but I don’t know anything about you. I’ve known you since I was eleven and the only things I really know about you are what you’ve shown me in the Pensieve and what’s hidden by your sleeve.”

It’s a bluff, and she’s sure Snape knows it. Darcy trusts this man before her with her life, regardless of how little she knows of him.

Snape’s left arm twitches, his right hand jumping to his forearm. It’s a movement that hardly phases Darcy in the slightest now. “Maybe that’s enough. Maybe those two things speak volumes if you’ve the brain for it.”

“You know everything about me. Don’t you think it’s fair for me to know a little about you?”

Snape frowns, a crease appearing between his eyebrows. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, though I suppose you’re rather used to it by now.”

All of her anger immediately turns to guilt. “You don’t disappoint me,” she tells him truthfully. “I just . . . I don’t understand you sometimes. You come here, call me arrogant and insufferable, and then ask me to blindly trust you. And what good has blindly trusting people ever done for me?”

For quite possibly the first time ever, Snape is left speechless. He doesn’t even attempt to grapple with words, but eventually does take her arm in his again and clears his throat. “We should go.”

“Stop!” Darcy argues, tearing her arm from his grip. She scowls at him. “I came here to get food to make myself a nice dinner, and you aren’t bringing me back to Hogwarts before I’ve even bought any food. And besides, I’ve still got . . . things at Remus’s that I’ve got to pack, and you’re not coming to fetch them with me.”

“Why not?”

“You _know_ why not.”

A muscle jumps in Snape’s clenched jaw. But to Darcy’s surprise, his face takes on a rather pleased expression, one that makes Darcy’s eyebrows shoot up to her hairline.

“Care to share your feelings on the subject?” she asks bitterly. “Or is it just another feeling to file away and never discuss again?”

Snape quickly rearranges his features. “You’re not going back in the market. If you wish to have a nice dinner, then I’ll put in a word with the house-elves and you can eat in the safety of the castle.”

Darcy realizes that she’s defeated. If she runs, Snape will only follow her. If he can’t find her, Dumbledore will. And isn’t Dumbledore tired of giving her his disappointed father speeches yet? If Voldemort doesn’t kill Dumbledore, then surely Darcy’s reckless and irresponsible behavior will give him a heart attack?

“You only want to keep me prisoner,” she murmurs, hoping that her words sting. “You don’t give a damn about my happiness.”

He rolls his eyes at her. The sight almost makes her laugh.

“Come on, let’s just go somewhere. If you don’t want me wandering around on my own, then come with me. We can go somewhere no one will ever find us.”

Snape clears his throat, clenching and unclenching his fists. “I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“It’s too great a risk for you to be seen with me.”

“Don’t worry,” Darcy says, fingering the edges of her floppy hat, still upon her head. “I’ve got my hat. I quite like it. A perfect disguise.”

He shakes his head in what must be an apologetic way as far as Snape goes.

“Just one night, and I’ll never ask anything of you again.”

“I find that hard to believe.” He stands up straighter, and Darcy hates that he’s taller than her, even just by an inch or so. “Go pack,” he says in his best stern teacher voice. “If you are not walking up the drive to Hogwarts in thirty minutes, so help me.”

It’s then Darcy knows that there’s no more to say. She takes her hat off and stuffs it in a bag, picking them all up. Without looking at him, she mutters, “Yes, sir.”

“Hey.” Snape’s voice is so gentle that it startles Darcy. She looks up into his face, eyes wide. “Everything we’re doing is for your protection. To ignore the precautions we’ve set in place is a very irresponsible thing. I want no more of this sneaking away from Hogwarts. You’re not to go anywhere by yourself, do you understand me?”

Darcy nods slowly. “I’m sorry.”

Snape exhales loudly through his nose, giving her a curt nod in reply. And then, just as Darcy grips her wand to Disapparate—“I’ll be waiting at the gates at nine o’clock sharp. _Don’t_ be late.”

“Really?”

“I mean it. Not a minute later.”

A smile tugs at her lips. “Okay, I won’t be late. I promise.”

“Good. Now get your food, and get out of here.”

Darcy takes three long strides away from him, eager to get back inside the market. At the last second, just before she reaches the main street again, she turns back around and runs to Snape, throwing her arms around him, shopping bags and all. Caught off guard, Snape barely has time to register what’s happening, one of his arms holding her close while the other bats away her flailing bags.

“Thank you,” Darcy whispers against his shoulder before dashing off again.

* * *

“Miss Potter! I was so sorry to miss you at our little dinner party.” Slughorn frowns very dramatically, if that’s possible. He receives a warm smile from Darcy in return. She can’t help but to look at the piece of egg stuck in his walrus mustache. “I was looking everywhere for you . . . couldn’t have you miss it . . . but Severus informed me that you’d gone home for the weekend. I swear it, that fellow knows far more about what goes on in this castle than he lets on. But I’ll catch you next time . . . a bit more planning . . . say, next Saturday?”

“Oh, I’m sorry, Professor Slughorn,” Darcy says apologetically, lowering her napkin back to her lap. “I’ve my meeting with Barnabas Cuffe that evening.”

Slughorn looks delighted by this prospect, laying a thick hand on her arm and leaning in closer. Darcy half-expects him to start gossiping. “We’ll work out the details for our next dinner party this week. But Cuffe . . . oh, what to say about Cuffe . . .”

“What’s he like?” Darcy asks, putting her head together with Slughorn. “My friend Emily writes the sports column for the _Prophet_ , and she says he’s—forgive my language, Professor—but she says he’s an arsehole.”

Slughorn leans back in his chair, throwing his head back and laughing so hard that his entire belly shakes. The sight makes Darcy laugh along nervously. Either Emily was one hundred percent right about Cuffe, or she was one hundred percent wrong. He finally wipes the egg from his mustache with his napkin before drying the tears at the corners of his eyes with a handkerchief. Past Slughorn, Dumbledore’s seat is left abandoned, and she has a clear view of Snape watching their loud conversation with narrowed eyes.

“Your friend is absolutely right. Barnabas Cuffe is not a very warm man . . . not a very room temperature man, either. Cold to the bone, he is, but very able and professional.” When Slughorn seems to realize what he’s said, he clears his throat and begins to backtrack. “All right, so the _Prophet_ is known to print inaccuracies and falsehoods and gossip, but . . . give Cuffe his own newspaper, let him build it from the ground up, and he would go far, I tell you. He could make something out of nothing. Let me give you a piece of advice, Miss Potter. If Cuffe notices that his demeanor impacts you, he’ll have second-thoughts . . . doubts . . . allow him to play his silly little game and allow him to be an arsehole for a little while. If you come out of it unaffected, I can’t possibly see why he’d turn you away.”

Darcy blinks in surprise at such awful advice. “That sounds much easier said than done, sir.”

“You’ll be just fine.” Slughorn pats Darcy’s hand. “You’ve already got more influence than most he interviews, I’m sure. Who wouldn’t want Darcy Potter contributing to their newspaper?”

“I’m sure there are many people who wouldn’t want me contributing to their newspaper,” Darcy chuckles, but it’s true. Perhaps in circles like Slughorn’s, Darcy is a beautiful and down to earth girl. But there’s no doubt in her mind that many people hate her for reasons even beyond her control. “I thank you for the advice, but I should go. I’ve just seen Harry getting ready to leave, and there’s something I want to tell him before he goes to class.”

Though when Darcy catches up to Harry and Ron, Max clinging to her shoulder with those sharp talons of his and hooting at people who stray too close, she rather wishes she was back with Slughorn talking about Barnabas Cuffe.

“Hey, Darcy,” Ron begins, a wide grin on his face, “guess what? Aragog’s dying.”

She answers with a flat, “Good.” It only makes her feel slightly guilty, knowing Hagrid is so fond of Aragog, seeing as they’d really grown up together—if that’s even the proper term for it. She can’t say the idea of a family of giant spiders continuing to live in the forest after almost eating the three of them is something she thinks much of. She hates talking about Aragog if she can help it, the feeling of tiny legs crawling everywhere a feeling that terrifies her. Darcy brushes the back of her neck casually, feeling warm under the collar. “You better not have signed me up for nurse duty.”

“Yeah, first shift,” Ron jokes, looking very much like Fred and George with the smile plastered to his face right now.

Darcy glowers at him and he laughs. “Hagrid isn’t doing anything stupid, is he?”

Harry scoffs. “Dunno. Does Grawp count?” he sighs. “No, he isn’t asking for help with Aragog. I think he’s noticed the danger now.”

“Well, better late than never,” Darcy replies, raising her eyebrows. “See Buckbeak?”

“ _Witherwings_ ,” comes Hermione’s soft voice from behind her. Darcy whirls around as Max almost topples off her shoulder. He pinches her skin and flies off through a nearby open window, ruffling Darcy’s hair on the way. “And still frightening, just so you know.”

“Shame.” Darcy leans against the rail of the stairs, crossing her arms. “You reckon Witherwings misses Sirius?”

“He’s a hippogriff. How much grief can he actually feel?” Ron asks, much to Hermione’s displeasure. “Anyway, I reckon he’s all right with Hagrid.”

“It’s where he belongs,” Harry adds. “He probably hated it being kept in Sirius’ mother’s bedroom.”

Darcy catches Harry’s eye, lowering her voice and becoming far more solemn. The memory of being cooped up in Grimmauld Place is a touchy one, and at least she’d been allowed to roam the entire house. Poor Buckbeak had been confined to one room for nearly a year. “No one liked being kept in that house.”

_Pretty pathetic that I’m sympathizing with a fucking hippogriff._

Hermione, picking up on the change of tone, clears her throat and flips some of her bushy hair out of her face, turning to look at Darcy with a most accusatory stare. “I can’t believe you left Saturday night. Did you know about Slughorn’s dinner party? Is that why you left so quickly?”

Darcy scoffs, tracing her tongue with her teeth for a moment, considering Hermione. “I might have heard some whispers.”

“Thanks a lot!” Hermione huffs, clutching her bag tight to her body and making a very dramatic scene as she climbs the first few stairs. “You know Cormac was there? He hates you, you know.”

“Well, I hate him, too.”

“You’re not getting out of the next one!”

“We’ll see,” Darcy chuckles, raising her eyebrows and wriggling them at Harry, making him smile. When Hermione growls at her, Darcy frowns. “You’re whining like a baby, Hermione. Can’t have been that bad.”

Hermione doesn’t answer, but Ron supplies, “At least you three were invited.” He doesn’t seem pleased by the idea that he was the only one not invited, though Darcy thinks that at any other time, Harry wouldn’t have been either. He’s never so good at Potions, which is a mystery she’s decided to hang up for a bit, what with everything else going on. When no one can come up with a reassuring or comforting thought, Ron turns his back on them and starts up the marble steps.

When Darcy and Harry are left alone, there’s a long and awkward silence. “Why didn’t you go to Slughorn’s dinner party?” Darcy asks him, frowning. Why should Hermione get angry with her for not attending, and not Harry?

“Because I was doing detention with Snape, remember?” Harry answers, almost bitterly, as if it’s all Darcy’s fault. “Sorted rotten flobberworms from good ones all evening. With _no gloves_.”

Darcy wishes she had something to say, but alas . . . “It’s character building.” But Harry’s already walking away from her, not bothering to look back. “One day, you’ll be thankful!”

Harry doesn’t indicate he’s heard her at all.

“Trouble in paradise?”

Darcy jumps nearly a foot of the ground, grabbing hold of her wand and spinning around so quickly that she stumbles, catching herself on the railing with her left hand before she falls. “ _Christ_ . . . I could have killed you,” she hisses. “What are you doing being seen with me? Bit risky for you, isn’t it?”

Snape looks down his hooked nose at her, eyes flicking once at Harry’s back before he rounds and corner and disappears from view, just as one of the staircases groans loudly, preparing to move. Darcy looks at him, waiting for whatever witty remark he has lying in wait. It’s then, as she looks at him expectantly, that she realizes something—she’d been too busy being angry with him to think of Snape as a true friend here, and maybe he isn’t really a true friend, but it’s something, and to hear what he has to say on the topic might be very interesting . . .

“Walk me down to the classroom,” she says abruptly, and Snape’s brow furrows, yet no protest is raised. “I have to tell you something.” Darcy waits around before Snape realizes she’s waiting for him to move, and when he takes his first step towards the dungeon classroom that had, for so long, been his ( _ours_ ), he keeps his eyes fixed upon Darcy to make sure she walks with him. “Madam Pomfrey told me something funny this morning while she was looking at my scar.”

“Oh?” Snape sounds less than amused, and she’s sure he’s aware of what’s coming.

“She said she gave you a very stern talking to after blacking my eyes.” Darcy gives Snape a sideways look, their arms brushing occasionally, always putting some distance between them. Part of her wants to hold onto his arm, just like she used to, but she can’t understand why the idea makes her squirm now. “Did she?”

“I don’t see how that is any of your business.”

Darcy scoffs, outraged, placing a hand to her wounded heart. “It’s one hundred percent my business!” she laughs. “You know she thought you’d beaten me when I walked down there that day. It took me fifteen minutes to talk her down.”

“Do you have anything of actual importance to discuss with me, or have you asked for an escort in order to unload every single impertinent thought in that inflated head of yours?”

The sting of his words cuts deep. It always does, but Darcy has no desire to let it show. She’s sure he’s looking for some sign that he’s hurt her, some sign that his words have a certain effect on her, whether good or bad. “Must you insult me?” she snaps at him, puffing her chest out. “Do you get off on hurting my feelings?”

“Darcy, I would advise you to watch your tongue,” Snape tells her, falling behind as Darcy moves quickly and gracefully down the stairs. “I’d very much like to know where your manners went.”

“Oh, I see . . .” Darcy purses her lips, reaching the bottom of the staircase. Snape’s shoes click against the stone floor as he catches up to her. “You don’t _actually_ like me. You only like the Darcy that shuts her mouth until it’s time to recite poetry. Are you intimidated by strong women, Professor Snape?”

“Certainly not,” he snarls at her, blushing very slightly, but enough that Darcy immediately takes notice. “I’m annoyed by women who have nothing of importance to say, but talk anyway.”

“Can’t help but notice you didn’t argue against me being a strong woman.”

“I certainly don’t think you weak,” Snape replies, bored. He stops in front of the closed classroom door, looking down his nose at her. Darcy’s heart leaps up her throat, and she can’t decide if she’s more anxious or afraid of what he’s going to say. He looks so intimidating, as if preparing himself to give her a lashing or a good smack upside the head.

Darcy swells with pride, but quickly as it comes, it fades. She isn’t a strong woman. She’s weak, weak, weak—mentally, emotionally, physically. A strong woman would have adjusted to Hogwarts long before now, would have stood up to Umbridge no matter the consequences. And something else irks her, makes her ashamed, makes her blush and look away from Snape to hide her tears.

“Aunt Petunia said only cowards try to kill themselves.”

“I don’t think your aunt and I are of the same mind.” He raises a single eyebrow. “Please tell me you brought me all the way down here for _something_.”

“Right. I did. It’s just . . . I thought maybe . . . could we meet? Or . . . something? It’s just so important, but I don’t want to be overheard.”

“Tonight is fine.”

“Oh . . . I forgot . . . not tonight. I kind of gave Cormac McLaggen a detention . . .” She smiles weakly when he gives her an exasperated look. “And I told him you’d be expecting him tonight at eight.”

“Thank you for that.” He gives her a rather exasperated look. “What did he do?”

“He was being rude,” Darcy insists, hands on her hips. “Teach him a lesson, would you?”

“You’ve grown quite bold over the summer.”

“I’m just done laying down for everyone,” Darcy counters, ignoring the skeptical expression on his face. “I’ll hold my tongue if I must, but I’m not going to lay down for Cormac McLaggen, and I’m certainly not going to lay down for _you_.”

Snape is quiet for a moment, allowing Darcy to relish her victory. “Are you done?”

And just like that, the feeling’s gone. “Yes, I’m done.”

“Thursday at nine o’clock. My office. Anything else before I take my leave?”

“Yeah,” Darcy says on a whim, tapping her chin thoughtfully. “Where’s Dumbledore gone?”

Darcy hadn’t really expected him to give answer to that question, so there’s no lingering disappointment as she watches him walk away wordlessly. 


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here’s another chapter because I probably won’t get one out during the weekend because GAME OF THRONES.

“Madam Rosmerta,” Darcy says sweetly, earning her a pointed look from the barmaid. “Can I have a whiskey and a vodka, please?”

“Hope they’re not both for yourself?”

“I’m meeting Emily.”

“Give me a second, Potter.”

“Cheers.”

Darcy leans against the bar, looking around the common room as Madam Rosmerta tends to some other higher priority patrons first. She wonders if Snape has sent someone to watch her tonight, and who? Would it be Emily relaying this information to him at the end of the night? Could it be another member of the Order disguised as a patron? Paranoia douses her like icy water, and she forces herself to turn back to the long mirror hanging over the bar.

There’s plenty of people in here tonight, too many than what’s comfortable. People want to be together, Darcy figures, afraid of being alone, feeling safer within the confines of a busy establishment. Several people line the bar, waiting on drinks or friends or chatting up Madam Rosmerta, people of all kinds. Darcy recognizes two older men who are frequently here when she is, but she doesn’t think they’re watching her. They’re always completely plastered, and she doubts Snape would ask such important things of such irresponsible people. And down at the far end is a young girl by herself, smiling weakly at Madam Rosmerta as a drink is placed in front of her.

“Oh, shit,” Darcy gasps softly when she sees who it is. She glances towards the door, hoping for Emily to burst in and keep any tensions from rising. But when she turns back, Tonks is looking right at her, and Darcy can’t ignore her now. Inhaling deeply, she moves around to the other side, standing beside Tonks with a healthy distance between them. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Tonks says, looking down into her cup and giving it a swirl before drinking deeply.

Darcy, having expected at least a longer welcome, blinks in surprise. “You know, I never did thank you for getting Harry off the train.”

Tonks turns slightly to face Darcy. Her hair is still that plain mousy brown, looking rather unwashed as it falls in loose waves just above her shoulders. There’s something of a beaten pup look about her, almost as if she’s undergone a few full moon transformations herself. She’s lost weight, too, her body thinning out to look more like Darcy’s than anything, though Tonks is still plenty of inches shorter.

Judging by the curious expression on her face, Darcy thinks Tonks had expected a much colder welcome herself. “Don’t mention it.”

“Well, I’d like to. You don’t know how much more I would have panicked if Harry had gone back to London.”

“Like I said, don’t mention it.”

Darcy frowns as Tonks turns back to her drink. “What’re you having? I’ll buy you another.” Madam Rosmerta brings Darcy her two glasses, walking away before Tonks deigns to answer.

“Look, Darcy . . . I know you saw the Patronus. You know you saw the Patronus. You don’t have to do this.”

In truth, Darcy hadn’t wanted to bring up the Patronus at all. She just wanted to make small talk to be polite because ignoring her completely would have definitely made her a bitch. But Darcy thinks that, if the roles were reversed, she’d probably rather be ignored. “I wasn’t going to—”

“You don’t have to pity me, coming over here and trying to make me feel better,” Tonks says, and though her voice is calm and one of forced polite, Darcy knows that she’s walking on thin ice now. “I get it, you know. I do. You’re Darcy Potter. Who wouldn’t be in love with you?”

“I . . .” Darcy scoffs, anger bubbling to the surface. This is how she gets repaid for being nice? By having things like that thrown in her face? “That’s not why he loves me. There’s an entire history between us that you weren’t around for, and you can’t just say things like that, because they’re wrong. You sound stupid.”

“Everyone knows your history,” Tonks replies, in that same cool voice. She doesn’t even look at Darcy. “It was published in every girly magazine and newspaper in Britain that Darcy Potter was sleeping with a werewolf. Her former teacher.”

“No wonder you sound so stupid. You’ve decided to believe everything those stupid gossip articles tell you to believe,” Darcy tells her even more coldly. “I didn’t ask to be . . .” She blushes. “ _Famous_ , all right? I didn’t ask for people to write things about me.”

Tonks finishes her drink and slaps some coins down onto the bar, looking at Darcy all the while. “Forgive me,” she says, but her voice is not at all kind, “if I don’t stoop to kiss your hand. It must be very tiring spending time with people who are below you.”

Darcy blushes harder. “I don’t think you’re below me,” she spits. “I told you, I didn’t ask for this. Harry’s the famous one, not me. I’m only his sister.”

“Don’t play coy, Darcy. It’s exhausting.” Tonks straightens up, looking very much ready to pass out on the floor. No color in her cheeks, shadows under her eyes . . . and only months ago, Darcy had envied Tonks for her beauty, for her figure, for her general enthusiasm and charm and humor. “You know why the papers are keen on you instead of Harry, don’t you?”

Darcy looks towards the door again, but it stays closed, blocking the cold, autumn wind from the inside. She tries to will Emily to enter, to break them up before Darcy can refuse, but . . . she is curious . . . “Why, then?”

“Moody told me once that you were bred for it, groomed for it,” Tonks answers, and Darcy bristles. _Bred_ to be famous! She can almost hear it rolling off Moody’s lips in that awful growl of a voice he has, but to hear Tonks say it, it sounds downright insulting. “You’re beautiful and tragic and romantic. You remember poetry and play the piano, and that . . . blushing maid act you put on to charm others . . . your aunt knew exactly what she was doing. If you accepted it, you would thrive in the spotlight.”

Darcy’s anger boils over. Her cheeks burn, and she’s never known such anger with Tonks—not when she’d found out Tonks kissed Lupin, not upon seeing her new werewolf Patronus. Who is Tonks—or Mad-Eye—to speak of her homelife with such certainty? As if they’re aware, to any degree, what Aunt Petunia and Vernon had put her through. How dare they speak as if it was Aunt Petunia’s plan to thrust Darcy into the spotlight, when all Aunt Petunia wanted was for her to marry some foul Muggle boy who would turn her into some broodmare to pop out children like Dudley! She’s in half a mind to hex Tonks senseless right now, to leave her a bleeding and crying mess on the dusty, ash strewn floor of the Three Broomsticks.

Tonks reaches into the inside of her black peacoat slowly, pulling out an official looking letter. She holds it up in front of Darcy face between two fingers. The scarlet wax seal has been pressed with a magnificent M. On the other side, when Tonks flips it over, seemingly annoyed by the letter itself, Darcy sees her own name written neatly across the envelope.

She snatches it from Tonks’ hand, afraid to open it, her heart racing. What could it possibly be? A summons to some ridiculous hearing? A job offer? A warning of some sort? Darcy can’t imagine whatever is in the letter is good, but she’ll be damned if she opens it in front of Tonks and shares the contents with her.

Tonks spares her, however. “The Minister of Magic is interested in meeting you. So he’s sent me with a letter like I’m your own personal owl.” She raises her eyebrows. “And now that I’ve done my job, I’ll be going.”

“You could have just given me the letter right off the bat, you know!” Darcy calls angrily at Tonks’ back, running her finger through the seal to open it up.

Darcy knows she shouldn’t read a letter from the Minister of Magic while in such an angry and unstable mood. Tonks must have known exactly what words and sentiments would get under Darcy’s skin, for the words hissed in her face are now completely burrowed under her skin. As if Aunt Petunia had readied her for fame, for stardom . . . that was never Aunt Petunia’s intent. Just because Tonks wasn’t raised that way doesn’t mean it’s true . . . Not that Darcy knows much of Tonks’ youth, but judging by the mismatched, faded clothes she wears (more often than not with holes in them, especially in her jeans), the rock music she’s always going on about, and the uncoordinated and clumsy way she moves about everywhere, she comes to the conclusion that Tonks’ parents seemed to have just dropped her from their nest to let their daughter find her wings on her own. This is a young woman who has a better grasp on who she is than Darcy ever will. While Darcy can hardly call Aunt Petunia’s lessons “guidance”, she is rather glad that a love for poems, classical music, pretty dresses, shoes, and flowers has been instilled in her, even by force. Is it so shameful to enjoy such things?

And yet, at the same time, Darcy can’t help but to think what her life might be like if she had parents who let her figure herself out on her own. Darcy can’t begin to imagine the person she might have been, instead of this little lady that she’s slowly coming to terms with, the parts of her that Lupin loves, despite her own mixed feelings about them.

Darcy brings her two drinks and letter to an open table as soon as a party of four leaves one empty. She checks her watch—the new one she’d bought herself at the market. Emily’s five minutes late now, which is relatively normal for Emily, so Darcy isn’t bothered. And besides, it gives her time to review the letter before having to share the insides with anyone else. She wonders how much Tonks knows, and how much she’ll say to Emily, if anything.

_Miss Potter,_

_With my appointment as Minister of Magic, the Ministry is currently undergoing trials of different methods in order to keep Britain safe and the people feeling secure. You may have noticed our general success with the recent arrests that have been made in addition to the—forgive my crassness—‘big name’ Death Eaters that were found in the Department of Mysteries._

_Given that I am a very busy man during these dangerous times, I would hate to waste breath meeting with you if your intentions with the Ministry are, as of yet, unclear. What with the changes that are taking place, we may have a few positions that could use a woman like yourself._

_Please send your reply back no later than by the end of the week, along with a few dates and times that would work well for you. Should you accept my invitation to meet, an envoy will be sent to do so in my place until we can reach a more solid conclusion on your working with the Ministry._

_Yours sincerely,_

_Rufus Scrimgeour  
Minister of Magic_

It’s an awfully bold letter. Darcy wonders what this Rufus Scrimgeour is truly like, wonders who the envoy he would send could possibly be. No doubt someone like Percy Weasley, snobbish and superior, strictly loyal to the Ministry and capable of knowing how far to push until it’s time to pull away. Though she has absolutely no desire to work with or for the Ministry after everything that’s happened of late, Darcy can’t deny that she is curious. What would they want with her? What could Darcy offer the Ministry that a more qualified witch or wizard couldn’t? Does Emily know about this? Maybe Emily will have answers . . . maybe she’ll be able to explain why the Ministry is interested in her . . .

Of course, she thinks to herself, folding the letter back up and tucking it into her pocket, downing her whiskey and cringing. _They want my name_. Maybe Tonks wasn’t all wrong after all, even if Darcy would never admit it.

When the bell above the door finally rings to signal Emily’s entrance, she sweeps over to the table near fifteen minutes later than what they’d planned for. She apologizes, looking windswept, hair looking distinctly ruffled and her cheeks and tip of her nose pink from cold. Emily sniffles, taking a minute sip of vodka without even pulling a face. Darcy is impressed.

“Sorry,” she sighs, pulling off her scarf and coat and hanging them on the back of her chair. “I would have been here ten minutes ago, but I saw Tonks out there. We ended up talking.”

“She have anything interesting to say?” It sounds like a bitter accusation, words spat in Emily’s beautifully confused and surprised deer-in-headlights look.

“Er . . . she told me I didn’t have to work at the Ministry Friday evening, and that Kingsley has recently been assigned with some bloke from Magical Law Enforcement who’s going to be—”

Darcy blushes, clearing her throat. “I get it,” she says, giving Emily a flippant wave of her hand. “You don’t have to continue.”

Emily adjusts her chair closer to the table, drinking another sip from her glass.

“How can you drink that straight?” Darcy asks, running a weary hand through her hair. Emily only shrugs, laughing. “Listen, I’ve a serious question to ask you.”

“Ask away, then.”

Darcy pauses, wondering how best to frame her question in the first place. “Ever since we’ve been friends,” she begins carefully, “have I ever made you feel . . . or have I ever made it seem like I think I’m . . . better than you, just because of who I am?”

“No,” Emily answers, and it’s posed much like a question, expecting a follow up explanation of such a strange question. “Darcy, you used to cry because of who you are.”

“Shut up,” Darcy snaps, but they both smile. She decides to keep the mood light tonight, not wanting to ruin things with her constant personal drama, and doesn’t show Emily the letter from Scrimgeour, nor does she bring up her conversation with Tonks.

* * *

Between all the work that’s been building up due to Darcy’s own impeccable procrastination skills, trying to determine the best course of action to take with Barnabas Cuffe, and deciding whether or not she wants to meet this mysterious envoy from the Ministry, the days become far too short and go by far too quick for Darcy’s liking. Not to mention all the little things that have been going on . . . for instance, Cormac McLaggen really does hate her, especially after Snape had him cleaning out the hospital wing’s chamber pots with no magic, no gloves, and only a small toothbrush, so she’s been dutifully avoiding his gaze whenever she can, taking back ways to class and to the Great Hall and the Owlery and wherever else she needs to go. And after getting Damocles Belby’s information from Marcus, Darcy’s been pondering sending him an introductory letter. Marcus had told Darcy that, in the current climate and considering the more recent and violent prejudice against werewolves, Damocles is perfectly content lying low. On one hand, to introduce him to Gemma would be fascinating, and Darcy wonders if the two of them could compare notes and possibly create a cure in a few years. On the other hand, if Barnabas Cuffe accepts Darcy’s offer to contribute to the _Prophet_ , she could use an interview with Damocles Belby as her first contribution.

Darcy isn’t sure what to make of Scrimgeour’s letter. Emily hadn’t brought it up at all throughout their dinner, leading Darcy to believe she had no knowledge of it. And it’s not as if she can just ask Tonks after the scene they’d caused in the Three Broomsticks. Hesitant to show anyone at all, Darcy thinks that she’d be happy to get Dumbledore’s opinion on this particular situation—however, Dumbledore isn’t around to hear her out. When she asks Professor Snape where he’s gone, he tells her it’s none of her business. When she asks Professor McGonagall, she tells her to stop asking foolish questions. When she asks Madam Pomfrey, she tells her not to worry her pretty head about the Headmaster.

And between all of that, Darcy still finds the time to dwell on the fact that Lupin has not yet returned. She desperately hopes that he isn’t on another six week mission, but the fact that it’s been nearly three weeks since he’s departed doesn’t give Darcy much hope. The Knut he’d given her begins to burn less frequently, and ofttimes her own number changes are not returned, leaving her anxious and dejected until the next time he works the numbers on his end. All she wants to do is kiss him over and over, everywhere on his face, hold him and love him and fall asleep with her cheek pressed against his heartbeat, but she keeps all these feelings to herself—for several reasons. The first being that likely no one wants to hear Darcy go on and on about how much she misses Lupin, and the second being that Darcy almost feels as if speaking her anxieties outloud might jinx them, and Lupin might not come home for another three or four weeks.

So consumed with work, Darcy only just remembers she’d told Snape she wanted to speak to him, five minutes to nine on Thursday night. She sprints from her office and down to Snape’s new office in the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom, something that still doesn’t sit well with her. Not that she thinks he doesn’t deserve it, but it should be Lupin sitting at his desk, sleeping in his bed, teaching in his classroom. Sweating slightly, Darcy enters Snape’s office just as the clock strike nine, and he’s sure to check when she closes the door behind her.

“Sorry,” she murmurs, taking a seat on the opposite side of Snape’s desk, leaning back and catching her breath. “I forgot.”

“Seems you've wasted money on your new watch, considering it clearly hasn’t helped you with the time.” He looks up at her from some papers, and Darcy looks down curiously to see what it is his students are learning about. It’s nothing interesting . . . second years learning some harmless jinxes, their essays on the etymology of each spell lengthy and probably very unnecessary. “And I must insist that you rearrange your priorities next time you ask to meet me so this does not happen again.”

“Sorry.” Darcy places the bottle of firewhisky she’s brought on top of his desk, earning her an exasperated sigh. “You’ll be happy to know that I decided to forego cigarettes tonight.”

He doesn’t even look up at her. “I’m honored. Here, look over these. They’re first years.”

“No. I’ve got enough work of my own,” Darcy says, frowning at the top of his greasy head. “Slughorn must be one of the laziest people I’ve ever met.”

“I think I have to agree with you.”

Darcy pulls her wand out of her pocket, conjuring two empty glasses. She pours them both half full, angry that Snape doesn’t even have the decency to look her in the face. Darcy slams the bottle back down, but he doesn't falter, still scribbling away on some poor student’s essay. She clears her throat, but still—nothing.

“I came here intending to tell you something very personal, so could you possibly find it in yourself to look at me while I’m talking to you?”

Snape’s head snaps up with unbelievable speed, his eyes fixing on hers, yet there is not disdain in them, nor is there anger. He looks at her incredulously, eyebrows knitted together as he regards her with a certain curiosity, eyes opened a little wider than normal. Slowly, Snape lowers his quill, leaning back in his chair with his hands held in his lap.

“You didn’t even wish me a happy birthday,” Darcy says firmly, unsure why it’s the first thing that spills from her lips. Tears well up in her eyes, the pressure of everything crushing her suddenly, suffocating her. “September tenth. I told you that.”

She hides her face in her hands, listening to Snape’s chair groan beneath him as he shifts. A few tears slip from her eyes, but Darcy forces herself to stop, and she lifts her face then to gather what’s left of her dignity. It’s difficult, though. She’s left feeling shamed as Snape looks at her, feeling like a stupid little girl. Sometimes he really makes her feel it. She looks at her glass of firewhisky, disgusted by it, sick to her stomach.

“Just say what you want to say, Darcy. Let’s not be here all night.”

“I don’t feel well.”

She hates the way he looks at her then, like he’s wary of her. “Do you need to go to the hospital wing?”

Darcy shakes her head no.

She knows it’s going to happen before it even happens. Feeling faint, Darcy claps her hands to her nose, feeling the warm trickle of blood run down from her nose onto her fingers and lips. Snape looks bewildered for a moment at this seemingly random gesture, but when she pulls her hands away to reveal the blood, her hands sticky with it, his mouth forms a hard line, an expression of concern crossing his face. He acts quickly, procuring a handkerchief, but instead of offering it to her, he moves to her side, sitting on the edge of the desk and pressing the cloth to her nose as she flushes bright crimson.

Darcy tilts her head back, voice nasally with the pressure on her nose. She searches his face for something, unsure of what. “Sorry,” she says again, for what feels the hundredth time in the past ten minutes or so. “I’m under a lot of stress.”

“Just . . . keep your head tilted back.” Snape takes hold of her wrist gently, lifting her hand to hold the cloth herself. “I’m going to get you a Calming Draught. Wait here.”

“No—” Darcy calls out as he turns to enter his chambers through the hidden door. He hesitates, turning to look at her. “I’m fine.”

“I insist—”

“I’m fine.”

“Stubborn girl,” Snape sighs, rubbing his temples. He lingers by the door, as if debating whether or not to adhere to her insistence that she’s fine, seeing as she’s clearly not.

“Would you please just sit down and not look at me like I’m dying?” Darcy asks pointedly, holding a hand out to gesture at his empty seat. She pinches her nose and pulls the cloth away, cringing at the sight of it soaked with red. Dragging the back of her hand across her face, it comes back with only old blood. She cleans her lips and the skin between her top lip and nose, blushing all the while, wishing Snape would stop his staring for once. She decides to start with the less depressing news. “I don’t know who else to tell . . . Professor Dumbledore hasn’t returned, and I’ve only until the end of the week to send my response back.”

“To who? What is this?” Snape asks, sitting back down in his chair and cocking an eyebrow. “What are you talking about?”

“I went down to the Three Broomsticks on Monday,” Darcy begins, sure that he’s well aware of this. She reaches in her pocket for the letter, still in the opened envelope, the wax seal broken. She holds it out for him to take. “Tonks gave me this letter, and I haven’t responded yet. I don’t know what to say . . . I mean, what if it’s a trap?”

Snape takes the letter cautiously from her, his eyes scanning the parchment all the way down to the bottom. “It’s good for you to be cautious, but I don’t think the Minister intends you any harm. On the contrary, I think keeping you close and alive is a high priority of his. But this envoy . . . no doubt some useless, glorified secretary . . . very curious . . .”

“My thoughts exactly, Professor,” Darcy says, smiling faintly. “Percy Weasley was the first person who came to mind.”

Snape laughs, then. It makes Darcy smile a little bigger, feeling more at ease now. His laughter is such a pleasant sound—not so sweet like Lupin’s low (and deeply attractive, she thinks) rumble or Emily’s sing-song, high-pitched giggle. Snape’s laughter seems forced out of him, pulled so unwillingly, gravelly with seemingly years of disuse, but a sound Darcy never thought she’d hear before, when she was just his student. He never laughed then, not around her, nor around anyone else she knew. Once, Darcy would never have considered Snape to feel, to hurt, to love. Another lifetime ago.

As Snape’s eyes return to the letter, Darcy allows her mind to slip and wander. He had always been one to instill fear into innocent students—namely first years who’d expected nothing short of fantastically magical teachers at Hogwarts, never cold and steely ones, sharp as a whip and cruel. He’d scared her, too. Darcy remembers looking up into his face for the first time, shaking as he had examined her face without speaking a word. She can’t deny that Snape had warmed to her in a way he hadn’t with other students—of course he kept up his act of disinterest and apathy, but he never allowed Darcy to fail, always offering veiled hints in order to move her along, always marking her homework and essays with passing grades when her friends would receive failing grades at times.

And yet, he hadn’t been particularly kind to her at all. Seventh year, they’d started to butt heads as Darcy grew into her role at Hogwarts. Snape had loathed her insolence, that much was clear, and after everything that happened with Sirius and things with Lupin came to light and Darcy returned to Hogwarts, she was sure that he hated her, because she felt the same. Darcy had barely regarded him a person, unaware that he was capable of feeling, and that had changed everything. The fact that Snape is capable of being someone other than his usual, abrasive, hardened self. That he is capable of being gentle and concerned, comforting and warm—that he is capable of love . . .

_Am I in love with him?_

Darcy tries to view things with an open mind, unbiased. She hates the idea that, while Lupin is away, she might love someone else. It makes her sick, makes her heart beat unnaturally fast, especially because the person in question is Snape, Severus Snape, former Death Eater turned Dumbledore’s spy, once in love with Darcy’s mother, once tormented by Darcy’s father and godfather, once almost killed by Lupin. He has done so many cruel and terrible things, and that doesn’t include how many countless terrible things he’s done that she doesn’t know about. The Dark Mark is permanently branded onto his forearm as a lasting reminder of his beliefs, or maybe his former beliefs.

_I just feel sorry for him._

Though she doesn’t think that, if Snape were to kiss her now or touch her so gently, she’d pull away. Which is strange, considering she doesn’t find him very attractive. She supposes his jawline is rather nice, but he has a weak chin and refuses to grow a beard to hide it. His eyes frighten her sometimes, those black pits that see everything, it seems. She can never tell when he’s digging around in her memories or just staring very hard at her. The greasy black hair that hangs lank on either side of his face, hiding his gaunt cheeks and sallow skin. But his hands and arms are strong; they’d been strong when he carried her from the Shrieking Shack as she faded in and out of consciousness, strong when he’d pulled her from the Black Lake, strong when he’d held her just months ago when Sirius’ death had caught up with her. And his robes hide his thin and lanky frame that she’d noticed upon seeing him in a suit at the market, and she wonders if he’s toned or muscular like Lupin had surprisingly been when he’d first shed his clothes in front of her.

_I’m just feeling lonely._

She’s never even called him by his real name. But Darcy prefers it that way. By referring to him as Professor Snape, the wall between them is still there. If she were to ever call him Severus, that wall would come crumbling down, and Darcy fears having to face her feelings for him that will surely hit her like a train. Feelings she doesn’t want to know she holds deep in her heart for a man such as this, for a man who loves her in his own twisted and confused way. She wonders if he’s never corrected her after her continued insistence of calling him Professor Snape because he’s worried about the same thing.

“Darcy?”

Darcy blinks, not having realized he’d been talking, despite watching his lips move. “What?”

“Where are you?”

“I’m sorry. I’m just . . . thinking.”

Snape gives her back her letter. “Who have you told about this?”

“No one. I didn’t know who to tell,” Darcy says. “Tonks knows, obviously. But . . . I don’t know. I mean, there’s no harm in meeting with an envoy, right?”

“You know what they’ll ask of you, don’t you?” Snape asks, a distasteful look upon his face. “The Ministry is going to have the audacity to ask you to join them, to speak for them, after what they put you through last year.”

“It’s only a meeting. I’m only interested in hearing what they have to say,” she tells him, folding the letter back up and tucking it into her pocket again. “I’m not actually interested in working with or for the Ministry, and it seems Scrimgeour realizes that. That’s why he’s not coming himself. But . . . what do you think Professor Dumbledore would say?”

Snape holds his hands up lazily. “I would not presume to speak on behalf of the Headmaster,” he answers. “If you are looking to meet with this envoy, I will insist that you have extra protection. You will meet in a crowded place—the Three Broomsticks will be fine. I don’t want them near the castle.”

“Yes, sir,” Darcy answers.

“Now, if that’s all, I am a busy man. I’ll show you to the door and I expect you are able to find your way back to your own office.”

Snape rises to his feet to show her out, but Darcy remains seated. “There’s something else. What I originally wanted to say.”

“Well . . .” He eyes her curiously. “If it causes you so much . . .” His eyes flick to the bloody handkerchief still sitting on the desktop, taking a long pause. “. . . physical and emotional _distress_ , then perhaps you should save it for another time.”

“No, I think I’d like to talk about it now.” Darcy forces herself to take her glass in hand, drinking deeply and lowering it. “Drink, Professor.”

“No, thank you.”

“I insist.”

Snape clenches his jaw, finally—painfully slowly—reaching for his glass and hesitating before drinking. There’s not a hint of disgust on his face afterwards; it remains impassive, stony as always.

Darcy finishes her drink, refilling her glass and topping off Snape’s. “I’m afraid that I’m becoming . . . bad.”

“Merlin’s . . .” Snape sighs exasperatedly, the bite back in his tone. “That’s what this is about? Darcy, as stubborn and as infuriating as you can be, that doesn’t make you a bad person. Compared to most, you might be considered a saint.”

“You don’t understand—”

“Then explain. I don’t have time for this foolishness.”

Darcy swallows hard, becoming frustrated. She doesn’t want to explain, but she must, and she has no one else to talk to about it. “I think it has something to do with my scars . . . I think I’m . . . feeding into them or something. There’s things I’ve noticed about myself that I can’t explain, that I think may have been caused because of them . . . and the dreams that I’ve been having . . . I always dream of . . . of Remus biting me, but the other night, on Saturday night, I dreamt it was _me_. But it wasn’t me, not really.”

“They’re only dreams. Your overactive imagination combined with the drink—”

“They’re not just dreams!” Darcy protests, tears pricking at her eyes again, making them blur and sting. “Seventh year, I dreamt of Sirius rescuing me from the rubble of my house, and no one believed me, but you _saw_ it! It wasn’t just a dream like everyone said—”

“It was a repressed memory, is all,” Snape answers, annoyingly calm. “You’ve never bitten anyone, and if you did, you’re not tainted enough to actually cause them severe harm or infect them.”

“But they’re changing me, the scars, and I can feel it. I’m angry a lot, and when I get angry, I want to hurt people—really hurt them. Not just . . . punch them in the face, but bring them pain to make up for my own,” she continues, crying freely now, not bothering to hide her tears from him.

“I’m sure it’s nothing to do with the scars, and more to do with the recent trauma you’ve been through. Anger is a perfectly natural reaction to such things, and likely would have shown its ugly head long before now if it did have anything to do with your scars.” Snape inhales deeply, shaking his head.

“You don’t believe me.”

“I believe that _you_ believe it has everything to do with your scars.” He leans forward, his hands clasped together on the desk. “Here’s my advice, Darcy, and I hope you take it to heart. Stop the drinking, and see where it gets you.”

Darcy mouths soundlessly for a moment, absolutely heartbroken. Whatever she’d expected from Snape, it wasn’t this. She had thought he might console her a little more gently, not tried to explain away her grievances. She wipes her tears away with the back of her blood stained hand. “What’s happening to me?” she whispers desperately, putting on the most pleading look she gave muster.

Snape softens. His expression seem to slacken, a frown pulling at his thin lips. “You’ve realized the world is not as kind as you wanted to believe,” he says.

“I tortured someone,” Darcy breathes, still hardly able to believe it herself. Maybe it had only been for a few seconds (or had it been minutes? or hours?), but Darcy can’t remember ever wanting someone to hurt so badly before. School-age Darcy would have never done such a thing to anyone—she wouldn’t even have been capable of it. “I tortured Bellatrix Lestrange at the Ministry . . . I wanted to . . . I enjoyed it . . . I tortured her.”

“I know.”

There’s a long silence that punctuates his bald and flat statement. “Why haven’t you said anything?”

“I didn’t think you would wish to speak of it.”

Darcy lowers her head, crying still into her lap. “I don’t know what I want anymore. I don’t know who I am.” She sniffles, reaching for her glass, glad Snape says nothing to stop her from drinking. “And I’m definitely not quitting drinking. It’s the only thing getting me through everything.”

Snape sighs again, refilling her near empty glass and placing it back down. He picks up his own glass, looking at it as if expecting there to be poison within.

Darcy, unable to keep from smiling—albeit weakly—reaches out to him with her own glass, clinks it against the side of his, and drinks in silence with him.

* * *

_Miss Potter,  
_

_I am glad to hear that my letter reaches you and that you are willing to cooperate with the Ministry during such dark and dangerous times. You would shine bright as a beacon for the people. Our envoy will meet you at the Hog’s Head pub in Hogsmeade Village at 8:00pm this coming Tuesday to discuss further details._

_Rufus Scrimgeour  
Minister of Magic_

* * *

Darcy makes sure to wear her best outfit, something professional and lacking too much color. She settles with a light, cream-colored sweater, tucked into one of her tweed skirts, a light brown thing that itches her thighs slightly, slipping on shoes that Emily had called “oxford heels” that made her think of both Gavin and Mr. Tuttle with an aching in her heart. Her dark red hair had been brushed so much that it shines in the light of her room now, and it’s much longer than Darcy had realized when it isn’t tangled and knotted and twisted at the ends.

She’d even presented herself to Professor Snape when she first tried on the outfit. Darcy had twirled for him, letting her hair be lifted by the breeze she’d created, laughing as she stumbled in her shoes. When she had looked into Snape’s face for a reaction or a criticism, it had been to find him staring at her with a rather soft look about him, a pained one. Feeling guilty for reasons unknown even to her, Darcy had left his office before he could even utter a reply.

Truthfully, Darcy probably would have worn something else that didn’t make her look so . . . _long_ , but Emily had insisted on it, and Darcy’s lived long enough to know that taking Emily up on fashion advice is always a good idea. Though the shoes are a little uncomfortable, having been sitting unworn for a few years now, Darcy reminds herself that it’s all worth it. She’d walked barefoot down to Hogsmeade, taking care to walk aside the rocky road, in the grass, to keep her feet from getting all cut up. The grass had been wet and it made her feet cold, but feeling the grass tickle her feet reminded her of the Burrow and the summer she’d spent there with her friends, recreating the childhood she always wished she had.

The door to the Three Broomsticks rings, causing Darcy to turn in her seat, heart leaping into her throat. Two people push through the door and out of the cold, one of them a horrified and anxious looking Emily Duncan leading a gruff looking old man into the pub.

It must be Barnabas Cuffe, it has to be, but Darcy had expected someone better looking. She doesn’t know why. Cuffe isn’t good looking in the slightest, thin, snow white hair—whiter even than Dumbledore’s—covers his head and sticks up in all directions as if it hasn’t been combed in years, and his droopy gray eyes are sunken into his face. His face is cleanly shaven, but as he approaches, Darcy notices there are all kinds of cuts on his chin and neck where his own blade or barber must have cut his skin. He would do well with facial hair, she thinks, the better to hide his craggy face from view. He sits down in the seat Emily pulls out for herself, right across from Darcy. She gets a better look at him then, eyes roving his face to take in his wide, flat nose and very pink lips that seem to be constantly shining with spittle. The dark blue robes he’s wearing are not flattering in the slightest, making him look twice as wide as Darcy thinks he is.

Emily is dressed very prettily, donning Muggle clothes, the same thing she’s been doing for years. The robes never fit right, she would always complain, and the styles and designs were awful. She flattens her dress nervously, a long-sleeved dress that’s the most beautiful color blue, a modest neckline that’s adorned with a silver necklace with the letter E sparkling bright against her skin. Her legs bounce up and down, juggling the entire table, and Cuffe flags Madam Rosmerta down first chance he gets.

“Haven’t been here in years,” he says in what he must obviously think a fond tone, his voice reminding Darcy of Mad-Eye Moody. To her surprise, Cuffe speaks with a thick Welsh accent. It’s a rough voice that makes chills run down Darcy’s spine, but she fears that his tone is as warm as it’s going to get. Cuffe looks directly at Darcy as Madam Rosmerta approaches. “What you having?”

“Er . . .” Darcy clears her throat. “Whiskey, please.”

“And you, Duncan? S’pose I’m paying for you, as well.”

Emily blushes. “Gin and tonic, please, Madam Rosmerta.” She gives Darcy a long and lingering look across the table from Cuffe’s side.

“Get me something sweet, no alcohol,” Cuffe tells Madam Rosmerta in the same gruff voice. “What kind of soup you got, love?”

“Leek and potato,” Madam Rosmerta answers quickly without missing a beat.

Cuffe verbally expresses his disgust, which doesn’t amuse Madam Rosmerta. “Get us a platter of fish and chips.” He looks at Darcy again. “You’ll eat fish and chips?” When she nods awkwardly, he turns to Emily. “And you?” She nods, too. “Fish and chips.”

When Madam Rosmerta click-click-clicks away, grumbling under her breath, Cuffe stretches obnoxiously and leans back in his chair. For the editor of the _Daily Prophet_ , Darcy is incredibly disappointed to see that he’s both ugly and obnoxious.

“My health doesn’t permit me to drink, you see,” Cuffe explains, catching Darcy staring at him. “I’ve got a heart problem. Was born with it, and one day, it’ll kill me.”

Darcy looks to Emily for guidance, but Emily looks almost sick, her face tinted green and pink. She wishes she could comfort Emily—surely this meeting won’t be so bad? “Isn’t St Mungo’s able to cure your condition, sir?” Darcy asks politely.

Cuffe laughs loudly, his voice seeming to echo throughout the building. The noise attracts some unwanted attention and muttering. “The fuck does St Mungo’s know about heart conditions? They could learn a thing or two from them Muggle doctors. But fuck all that. We’re not here to talk hospitals, are we?”

Madam Rosmerta arrives with drinks and food before Darcy can answer. A long platter of fish and chips is sat in the middle of the table. Cuffe takes a long drink of whatever she’s brought him, and he smacks his lips afterwards. “Ta, sweetheart.”

Darcy quietly thanks Madam Rosmerta, sharing an uncomfortable look with her before she walks back to the bar.

Cuffe gives Darcy a long, lingering look. “Listen here,” he tells her, pointing a chip at her very seriously. “I’m here because Duncan vouched for you, and the only reason I listen to anything Duncan says is because her mother was one of the best reporters the _Prophet_ has ever had. That was _real_ journalism, and what I expect of you if you want to contribute to my paper. And I’m going to tell you right now, I’m not publishing no fucking article about werewolves again.” He chews loudly, with his mouth open. “The fucking grief that article caused me . . .”

Darcy blushes, drinking deep from her glass.

Cuffe considers her. “Do you have any leads?”

“No,” Darcy says.

He grunts. “What are you going to write about?”

“I don’t know.”

“That’s a shit answer, Potter,” Cuffe says, shaking his head. It’s another minute before he speaks again after he finishes drinking from his tankard and stuffing his face with food as if he’s never eaten before. “As it happens, we’ve an opening at the _Prophet_ , and I’m tempted to have you fill it.”

“What’s the opening, sir?” Darcy asks. “I can’t put too much time towards the _Prophet_ . . . I’ve already one full-time job here at Hogwarts.”

“If you don’t have too much time to put towards the _Prophet_ , then maybe you should forget it. I don’t want half-arsed work, do you understand me?”

“What’s the opening, sir?” Darcy asks again, choosing to ignore him.

“Advice column. My guy was killed a week ago. Dark Mark set over his house and everything.” He chuckles darkly. “Guess someone didn’t like the advice he gave them.”

Darcy scoffs, and Cuffe frowns at her. “You want me to dole out advice?”

“Considering you came here completely unprepared, with no leads and not a clue as to what you want to write, I’d say the advice column is a fucking good offer. But if you think it’s beneath you . . .”

Darcy scowls, not wanting to honor him with a reply. As if she has the time to shell out advice to every sorry person who decides to write her! But then again, if she does well with this, maybe Cuffe would let her print what she wanted . . . something meaningful . . .

“Won’t lie, Potter . . . I’ve been thinking this over . . .” Cuffe strokes his chin, looking her up and down. “With Darcy Potter heading the advice column, it may entice more people to write in . . . we may get more readers and subscribers . . .”

“And you’re sure people want _my_ advice?” Darcy raises an eyebrow, skeptical. She’s having a hard time justifying this situation. After all, she’s busy enough without having to hear people’s bitching and moaning. And what good is she at giving advice anyway? How could Cuffe have so much confidence in her when she has almost zero in herself? “No offense, but my life isn’t as peachy creamy as you may think it is.”

“Do I give a damn about how good your advice is?” Cuffe snaps, but his tone is somewhat softened by the food in his mouth. “When people see who’s going to be addressing them, they’re going to get excited, and fuck your advice.”

There it is. “So this is less about journalistic integrity and more about how many people you can get to pay for your stupid paper?”

Cuffe’s face blanches, but instead of embarrassment or anger, his face shows incredulity, as if no one has ever dared say such a thing to his face. “Did you just—” He turns heavily in his seat to face Emily, who’s giving Darcy an exasperated look. “Did she just insult my fucking paper?”

Darcy, unsure of whether or not she even wants to continue pursuing a place among the _Prophet_ , decides that she isn’t going to play nice now. Not after all the _Prophet_ has said about her, about Harry, about Lupin. “Your paper has done nothing but tarnish my reputation, along with my brother’s and Remus’. You talk about the _Prophet_ as if you didn’t have Rita Skeeter printing bogus stories for years.”

“Now you listen here, you little brat,” Cuffe retorts, growing red in the face. “The _Daily Prophet_ will continue to flourish with or without you. So keep running your mouth and see where it gets you. I don’t have to be so charitable.”

“Darcy . . .” Emily says warningly, lifting her eyebrows at Darcy.

“You’ll head the advice column until I find a replacement, or you won’t have anything to do with the _Prophet_.”

“I could go to _Witch Weekly_ ,” Darcy threatens, sitting back in her chair and crossing her arms over her chest.

Cuffe laughs again, and this time his laughter is biting and bitter. “If you want to write gossip columns. You’d only be exploiting yourself at that damned magazine.”

“At least they’ll freely admit they publish gossip,” Darcy counters, shrugging her shoulders casually. “Unlike the _Prophet_ , that still insists their gossip is based upon cold, hard fact.”

Cuffe doesn’t back down, nor does he falter. “Advice column or nothing, girl. Be careful now. You’re walking on thin ice.” When Darcy doesn’t answer right away, Cuffe smiles, pleased with himself. “Why do you want a job at the _Prophet_ anyway? Answer me that. You want to write more lovely little articles defending your boyfriend? That article was shite, and if Duncan was as good a friend to you as she says, she would have told you so.”

Color rushes to Darcy’s cheeks. “It wasn’t shite!” she protests, making Cuffe laugh his old man laugh, wheezy and barking. “I just want people to hear me, and it seems the only way they listen is when my opinions are printed on the page.”

“Well, I don’t want your fucking controversial opinions in my fucking paper, do you hear me, Potter?” Cuffe says, throwing his fish down onto the platter and wiping his greasy fingertips on a nearby napkin. “If I get one whiff of anything werewolf, I’ll fire you, and I’ll fire Duncan for measure.” Emily glares at Cuffe, looking outraged. He turns to look at her, rolling his eyes. “Oh, fuck off, Duncan.”

“I want to write my own article,” Darcy insists.

“Piss on your article.”

“Then I’m not interested,” she says, slowly getting to her feet. She can see something shift in Cuffe’s dull gray eyes. “I’ll take my talents elsewhere.”

Cuffe snorts. “Sit the fuck down, Potter.” He holds his hands on the table, exhaling through his nose and furrowing his brow. “You’ll head the advice column, and I want five hundred words on the death of my last advice writer. His name was Bertram Loughty. I’ll give you the contact information for his family. Actually, make it a thousand. He was a good man.” His eyes light up as he seems to remember something, and his lips tighten, his voice lowering. “And tell that _pissant_ , Horace Slughorn, to stop sending me all those goddamn letters.”

“Why don’t you have someone who actually knew Bertram write about him?”

”I could. But thought maybe you’d like a challenge.”

Darcy thinks for a moment, but Cuffe’s hard stare makes her feel rushed. How hard could it really be to offer advice? She’s read the advice column before, and it’s all asinine things—my mother hates my new husband, I’m not sure how to best protect my home from Dark wizards, my gambling addiction has gotten me kicked out of my home. The advice had been rather good, informative and kind and sympathetic. Darcy isn’t sure she can be as sympathetic, but perhaps she’ll give it a try. It’s a good way to garner favor, she reckons, if she can give decent advice. People might even begin to truly trust her, to rely on her advice, to listen to what she has to say, to realize that she has a brain of her own and opinions and thoughts of her own.

“Deal,” she finally says, reaching out to shake Cuffe’s hand.

Cuffe hesitates, narrowing his eyes at Darcy. “One word . . . one mention of a werewolf, and you’re done, understand? You and Duncan.”

“Fine.”

“If I don’t like what you’re writing, I have every right to sack you—Darcy Potter or not. If I think you’re not working hard enough, I will fire you. If I think you’re a terrible fucking writer, I will fire you. I’ve no patience, nor do I tolerate, writers who don’t do research.”

“Fine.”

Cuffe reaches out then, shakes Darcy’s hand firmly, and calls Madam Rosmerta back over to pay for everything. Darcy and Emily thank him quietly, and it’s only when Cuffe nearly kicks down the door on his way out does Darcy realize her heart is racing. Muttering something about needing some air, Darcy pushes her way outside in the chill night, Emily at her heels. They stand a little ways away from the front of the establishment, and Darcy offers her a cigarette.

“That didn’t go terribly, did it?” Darcy asks with a nervous laugh, lighting her cigarette and taking a long pull. “I thought he was going to be a lot worse.”

“He is when he’s at home in his office,” Emily confesses. “He’s a nightmare. You handled him relatively well, even when you decided to talk back. I thought he was going to fire me on the spot.”

“You forget that I’ve been dealing closely with Snape the past few years,” Darcy laughs, and even Emily manages a small smile at this. “If I can handle Snape at his worst, I can handle anything.”

They’re quiet for a few moments, jackets pulled tight around themselves as the wind begins to pick up. Emily watches Darcy’s face for a long time, as if trying to communicate with her without speaking. “The advice column isn’t so bad,” she says in a rather comforting tone. “Truthfully, half the time the questions and letters are coming from people Cuffe told to write in. To make the writer look good, you understand.”

Darcy smiles weakly. “What are the chances Cuffe does his damndest to make me look good?”

“Not very high,” Emily says honestly. It’s better than hearing her lie. “But you’ve got a reason to practice using your typewriter now. And who knows? Another magazine or paper might pick you up to do a more interesting story for them.”

Darcy doesn’t really care to speak of this right now. There’s something more pressing on her mind that she wants to share with Emily, but the words do not come easy to her. To tell Emily about meeting with this envoy the Minister is sending will mean she’ll eventually have to tell her about the conversation with Tonks, something that makes her blush. “Do you still spend much time with Tonks?” she decides to ask in what is her most casual, carefree voice.

“Not particularly,” Emily shrugs, flicking her cigarette butt down the dark alley behind her. It fizzles out with a _hiss_! “We do a few patrols together some nights, but otherwise we hardly see each other.” She looks around and lowers her voice, and Darcy leans in, knowing that something good is going to be shared right now. “Gawain Robards—he took over from Scrimgeour—thinks Tonks isn’t fit to be doing hard duty . . . doesn’t think she’s in the right state of mind to be hunting Dark wizards.”

Darcy suddenly feels very bad for Tonks. Does she blame me for being put here? “That’s why she’s here? Because she’s depressed?”

Emily nods. “Give me another smoke, would you?” She holds her hand out, and Darcy slips another one between her fingers, lighting it for her as it reaches Emily’s lips. “He’s right, though. It would be suicide for her to go out in the field the way she is.”

“She hates me,” Darcy says flatly. And dropping all pretense, she relays the conversation she’d had with Tonks, while Emily listens with a very weary expression, as if she’s the mother of some constantly squabbling siblings. “I didn’t even do anything. The only reason she hates me is because of Remus.”

“Oh, Darcy, she’s only jealous. And I still can’t believe he’s _that_ desirable—”

“Would you shut the fuck up about that?” Darcy groans.

“I’m only saying!”

Darcy laughs, wrapping an arm around Emily’s neck and putting her in a headlock. Emily protests loudly, shrieking before it turns into wild laughter. She wriggles out of Darcy’s grip, fists up to mock fight. Darcy kicks some dried up old leaves at her and runs the other way, the cold wind making her eyes sting and water, while Emily’s continued laughter follows her down the High Street of Hogsmeade, as if they haven’t a care in the world. 


	15. Chapter 15

_Moonlight Sonata_ —another hopeless plea for Lupin to come home.

Her fingers are clumsy after weeks with no practice, and the keys are still stiff, not having been truly broken in. But she remembers the song without sheet music. It’s just like reciting poetry, but wordless poetry. She’d have been doomed during exams if she hadn’t had the uncanny talent of being able to memorize things set in front of her. She’d have been doomed at Privet Drive if she hadn’t been able to memorize the poems Aunt Petunia would give her.

The song gives her chills, the hair standing up on her arms and the back of her neck. Darcy forces herself not to look over her shoulder, no matter how badly she wants to. It feels as if there’s a crowd of people watching her play, her back to them, and if she turns, she’ll see them all—James and Lily, Sirius, Cedric, Mrs. Duncan, the ghosts of all those killed because of Voldemort and his followers. And as much as her desire to see them all weighs heavy on her, Darcy knows that if she turns around, the room will still be empty, just as it was when she’d walked in. Regardless of whether there are ghosts in the room or not, the air is different here—it’s heavier, thicker, making it difficult to breathe, making her heart flutter at the softest noise, the scurrying of a mouse or the sound of wind against the windowpane, or the creaking of the bench she’s sitting on and footsteps of students passing the room on the other side of the door.

When she finishes, she sighs, and the room and ghosts sigh with her.

And someone claps.

Darcy’s so surprised by this that it leaves her breathless—tears spring to her eyes and she doesn’t know why the first word that comes to her lips is, “Daddy?”

But it’s not James—of course it’s not James, for he’s been dead fifteen long years now. It’s only Professor McGonagall, looking thoroughly miserable upon hearing the soft desperation in Darcy’s voice. She blushes furiously, embarrassed to be caught uttering the childish word, especially knowing that her father could never be here, could never hear her play the piano so well.

Darcy holds her face in her hands for a moment, elbows digging into her thighs. She allows herself a few tears for her father before wiping them away and looking up at McGonagall from the bench.

“Sorry,” Darcy murmurs. “I, er . . . know my dad is dead.” She turns back to the piano, examining the keys with determination. “Let me guess . . . your job, while Professor Dumbledore is away, is to check in on me and ask me if I’ve been kind to Professor Snape and make sure I’m not thinking of stepping off the Astronomy Tower.”

“I couldn’t find you anywhere,” McGonagall tells her, a little sternly. “You weren’t in your office, you didn’t answer when I knocked on the door to your chambers, you weren’t in the dungeons, nor were you in the Owlery or the library . . . Severus thought you might be in here.”

Darcy flinches at the sound of his name, something she’s sure McGonagall doesn’t miss. “Professor Snape knows me very well.”

“So I’ve noticed.” There’s a beat in which she waits for Darcy to answer, but she doesn’t. “I am here out of concern,” There’s the scraping of a chair from behind Darcy, the rustling of McGonagall’s robes. “Severus came to me yesterday about you meeting with someone from the Ministry on Tuesday.”

Darcy whirls around in anger. “He had _no_ right!” she shouts, her voice echoing throughout the tall room. “I told him that in confidence!”

McGonagall hardly seems phased by Darcy’s sudden outburst. “He did the right thing, Potter. It was out of concern for your safety, to assure that you would not be exposed or vulnerable while speaking with a delegate from the same Ministry that, only last year, tried to imprison you on trumped up charges.”

“I’m not a little girl. I can handle myself. I’m not afraid of a glorified bureaucrat.”

Darcy watches McGonagall’s lips tighten, pursing in such an Aunt Petunia-like fashion that it’s all she can do to not look away. “Dedalus Diggle and Hestia Jones will be in the Hog’s Head during this . . . meeting, should anything go wrong.”

She cocks an eyebrow. “Does Professor Snape anticipate anything to go wrong? Because he didn’t tell me that.”

“I won’t lie . . . the both of us thought it . . . _odd_ , that they would choose to meet in the Hog’s Head.”

Darcy frowns. She’d assumed they’d wanted to meet in the Hog’s Head for some privacy, able to talk away from eavesdroppers. But she’s suddenly reminded of something Sirius had told her before . . . something he’d told her after Dumbledore’s Army had met for the first time in the Hog’s Head and were overheard.

“Damn kids,” Sirius had repeated over and over again whenever he’d bring it up again. “The Hog’s Head isn’t a meeting place, especially not for such secret things. It’s a place where underage students can get alcohol, a place where you can drink and be left alone. It’s not the headquarters of some secret society, and it never will be.”

Darcy inhales deeply, shrugging her shoulders and getting slowly to her feet, fingertips brushing over the ivory keys of the piano. “Maybe the envoy doesn’t like crowds. I can’t say I blame him. The Three Broomsticks has been overwhelming lately.”

Professor McGonagall rises, as well. “I understand that Remus’ absence has taken a toll—”

“I’m not some helpless, lovesick girl,” Darcy counters, bristling. “I’ve other things on my mind besides when Remus will come home.”

McGonagall’s face suddenly hardens, quick as she blinks. Darcy, startled, tries not to let it show. “Last year, I would have encouraged you to reach out and make connections,” she tells Darcy, in the same tone of voice she’d used when Darcy was only eleven, consistently late to Transfiguration the first week of school. “But now, it is dangerous. You must be careful. You speak, and it is not only with your voice, but with Harry’s. If your end goal is to crash and burn after diving headfirst into a world you know nothing about, then by all means, go ahead. It seems nothing we say to you will sway your opinion. But you will _not_ take your brother down with you, do you understand me, Potter?”

Darcy tries in vain to keep the venom from her tone. “Are you implying I would ever do anything to assist in the wrecking of Harry’s reputation?”

“I’m implying that, with your pride blinding you, it’s possible that you might accidentally hurt your cause rather than aid it.” McGonagall takes a step closer, heel of her boot clicking against the flagged stone floor ringing in Darcy’s head. “Have you ever considered that these Ministry people are already five steps ahead of you? Do you think they actually believe you’re going to agree to their terms?”

“No,” Darcy answers flatly. “But they’re sending someone to speak with me, which means I still have a chance to pass along my regards to the Minister.”

Darcy makes to brush past Professor McGonagall, uninterested in conversing further and being insulted anymore. Maybe Darcy isn’t as smart as the Ministry, but she can play the same game. By playing their game, she’s proving herself an equal, a worthy adversary, someone they may come to respect, regardless of her hatred for the Ministry in general.

McGonagall’s hand grabs hold of Darcy’s wrist firmly. “Don’t give them any reason to put you into Azkaban,” she rasps, eyes deadly serious behind her square spectacles. “There may be a new Minister, but Rufus Scrimgeour is not like to forget any slights regarding his Ministry. If they see your insolence as a grab of power, or a threat of some kind—”

“Those are Professor Snape’s words, not yours.”

McGonagall has the grace to at least look slightly embarrassed. “The message is still the same—”

“I don’t want power, and I’m not being insolent,” Darcy argues, pulling her wrist away from McGonagall. “What would you have me do, Professor? Nothing? You think I should just ignore the injustices they’ve committed in regards to me and my family?” Anger welling in her, Darcy steps up to McGonagall, near nose to nose with her. “That Ministry ruined my godfather’s life, took him away from Harry and I, continued to call him murderer and traitor until his death. That same Ministry decided it was all right to make Harry and I, and Dumbledore out to be liars. They’ve made Remus’ life as hard as they possibly can, tortured me and my brother and your students. They’re arresting innocent people as we speak. I will not ignore that, Professor.”

Professor McGonagall’s beady eyes examine Darcy’s face critically for a moment. “You are a true Gryffindor through and through, Potter, like your mother and father before you.” Her hand comes to rest on Darcy’s scarred shoulder and she flinches. “I regret they will never see the woman you’ve grown into.”

“Sirius would be,” Darcy says quietly. “If the Ministry hadn’t killed him.”

“Bellatrix Lestrange killed Sirius, Darcy. Not the Ministry.”

Darcy shakes her head, tears pricking her eyes. “There was nothing left of him at the end,” she says again. “The bounty on his head, the guilt, Azkaban . . . Grimmauld Place. Those things took the life from him long before Bellatrix did.”

Professor McGonagall looks nothing short of horrified, but she doesn’t make another attempt stop Darcy as she leaves the classroom.

* * *

“How are things going with Dean?”

Ginny heaves a great sigh that indicates things aren’t going so well at all. This catches Darcy’s attention, who lowers her newspaper to look over the top at Ginny. Even Hermione stops flipping through her book to join the new conversation.

“Well, don’t keep us in suspense,” Darcy teases when it takes Ginny a few moments to answer. “Do tell.”

“Dean’s . . . _passionate_ ,” Ginny answers casually, shrugging her shoulders. “I mean, he’s a great snog and he’s loads of fun to be around, but I’m not sure that I’m ready for what he wants.” She looks expectantly at Darcy with her brows raised high on her freckled forehead, brown eyes so like Ron’s, so like Mrs. Weasley’s.

Darcy frowns, a crease appearing between her brows. “And what exactly is it that Dean wants?”

Ginny doesn’t even blush, something Darcy envies. “What was your first time like, Darcy? All the older girls say it hurts the first time.”

Darcy chuckles. “And who said that?”

“Lavender Brown and Parvati Patil,” Ginny answers, very matter-of-factly. “Parvati said she’s slept with Cormac McLaggen, but I don’t believe her. I’ve never seen the two of them speak before. And Lavender says she slept with Oliver Wood once, but I told her to her face it wasn’t true because Oliver fancied you, Darcy. She’s way too young for him anyway.” Ginny catches Darcy’s eye and flushes. “Sorry.”

Darcy snorts, returning to her newspaper. There’s a long silence before she lowers it again to find both Ginny and Hermione leaning forward, as if waiting for some exciting secret. “What?”

“What was it like?” Ginny asks eagerly, nearly falling out of her armchair with enthusiasm. “Did it hurt? Was it good?”

“We were sixteen and drunk, and no, it didn’t hurt. Oliver was kind enough to make sure I was ready,” Darcy says, her cheeks stinging. She wants to hide behind her newspaper, but that would only make it worse, especially in Ginny’s company. “And the only thing I’m going to say about it is that you shouldn’t go through with it if you’re unsure. Your first time should be with someone you love. Preferably after you’re married. And you can tell your mother I said that.” She smiles smugly, pleased with her answer.

“Did you love Lupin when you slept with him?” Ginny asks, making Darcy blush. Ginny, looking far too pleased with herself, hugs her knees to her chest and waits for her answer.

“Yes,” Darcy answers without hesitation. “And I told him so the night we slept together. But do as I say, not as I do.”

“Oh, come on!” Ginny looks at Hermione with a pleading sort of look, as if expecting backup. “Darcy, you have to tell us! I can’t go my entire life not knowing the details!”

“I’m not going to divulge my sex life to the either of you just because you’re curious. Your mother would kill me.”

Ginny raises a thin eyebrow. “Who’s going to tell?”

Really, she wouldn’t mind telling them vague details, making them giggle and blush. But what could she possibly say that wouldn’t make her more anxious about Lupin? How could she possibly describe the way he’d made her feel that night? It would sound ridiculous, she thinks, to tell Ginny and Hermione how touching his warm, bare flesh had taken her breath away. How could she tell them that everytime Lupin stopped kissing her to look down into her face while inside of her, she had felt more loved right there in that moment than she’d ever felt before in her life? There’s no way she could accurately and justifiably describe the way his heartbeat feels against her back, the safety that his arms promise her, the knowledge of knowing it’s her that Lupin comes for. All of it seems so personal and so intimate, that describing these things outloud would make them seem less than they are.

Upon realizing that Ginny isn’t going to leave without _something_ , Darcy sighs, placing the newspaper onto the nearby table. The corners of Hermione’s lips quirk upward, and Ginny’s eyes grow wider, a look of pure excitement on her face.

“I went to him, the night after the full moon. We’d had an argument, but he sent me a note asking for me, so I went.” Darcy smiles fondly, reaching for the half-full wine glass in front of her. She takes a long drink, recalling that night as easily as if it were yesterday.

Hermione’s eyes widen in comprehension, her lips forming a perfect ‘ _o_ ’. “The night you asked us not to tell Emily where you’d gone . . . everyone thought you were upset because you and Oliver broke up.”

Darcy nods, shifting in her seat as the two girls scrutinize her. “Yes, it was that night. I was just so happy to be with him again, to sit beside him, to look at him in the privacy of his own rooms again. You should have seen him . . . half-dead by the look of it, sickly and sweating and pale. He knows I’m weak for his wounded animal act, but all I wanted was for him to know how much I loved him, and telling him wasn’t near enough.”

Hermione’s face has softened, like she hadn’t expected something so heartfelt and so honest. Ginny’s smile, too, has faded slightly, eyes now wide with wonder instead of blunt curiosity.

“It was like nothing mattered except for us, like we were safe within the walls of his bedroom.” Darcy runs a hand through her hair, the images of that night still very vivid in her head. She drinks again, wishing she could just feel his fingers twined with hers again . . . that’s all . . . she doesn’t need much . . . “I didn’t sleep with him because I was a desperate teenage girl—or maybe that’s part of it—but I slept with him because I couldn’t be close enough, because I wanted to give him the last thing I had to give him.”

“That’s . . .” Hermione pauses, searching for an appropriate word, her eyebrows knitting together. “Romantic.”

“I suppose you could call it that.” Feeling slightly more emboldened by their friendly reactions, Darcy continues. “I never loved Oliver. I mean, I did love him very much as a friend, but . . . I didn’t realize that it could feel like that, do you know what I mean?” Clearing her throat, humiliated, Darcy looks away from them. “Anyway, I didn’t take you two for the gossiping type.”

“But you are,” Hermione jokes, and Darcy can’t argue with that.

She laughs. “I am.” Darcy stands, waving her hand at them. “Now I’ve got work to do, and it’s near curfew. Back to your dormitories.

Ginny groans. “You’re such a teacher, Darcy.”

Darcy walks them to the door leading to her office. “That’s what I get paid for.”

“I know you told Gemma all about it,” Ginny continues to protest, frowning, her lower lip out. “Why can’t you tell us?”

“There’s a difference between telling Gemma and telling the fifteen-year-old sister of my brother’s best friend. See you tomorrow, ladies.”

Ginny and Hermione seem rather put-out, but mumble their good nights and set back out for the comfort of the Gryffindor common room. Darcy sighs heavily, lighting a cigarette, vaguely and reluctantly wondering what Mrs. Weasley would say if she did know that Darcy had told Ginny and Hermione about the first time she and Lupin slept together. She likely wouldn’t be very happy at all—it’s no secret Mrs. Weasley would rather Darcy not sleep with Lupin at all, something she isn’t quite prepared to give up.

The Knut has been cool and untouched all day. She pulls it from her pocket, not bothering to change the serial number. She’s already changed it thrice in the day, with no response. Changing it again, expecting a response from him, will only make Darcy worry more. She wishes they’d come up with some sort of code through numbers; the realization that Lupin will not be able to tell her at all when he’ll be home is crushing. She’d hoped he would be back when she met with Cuffe, but of course she knew that might be too early, too much to ask. And now it doesn’t look like he’ll be here for when she meets with the Ministry official. How much more of her year will he miss out on? How many Quidditch games, Hogsmeade visits, meetings with Emily or Gemma? When will he be back to see the work she’s put in towards classes, or see how she’s cleaned his home?

She wonders, too, if it has anything to do with Dumbledore, who still hasn’t been attending meals, nor summoning Harry for lessons, nor checking in on her to ask the same stupid questions every single time—have you been kind to Professor Snape? has he been kind to you? have you thought about killing yourself lately? oh, and do you think you could just blindly trust me to know what’s best for you despite it having been me who left you at the doorstep of people who’ve abused you near your entire life?

She has a hard time believing Dumbledore wouldn’t know about Darcy’s meeting with someone from the Ministry, and she also can’t imagine he’d be very pleased with it. But Dumbledore’s opinion won’t change her mind.

Darcy pushes all of her schoolwork to the side of the table she’s littered with essays and homework and quills and ink bottles. Instead, she takes out one of her photo albums and opens it to the first page. Plenty of photographs are awaiting to be stuck onto the pages, photos of everyone. She looks through them all, smiling, even at the ones of Sirius. Even after Azkaban, he was still so handsome to her—to near everyone of her friends, too. Struck with a sudden thought, Darcy moves quickly over to a bookshelf that houses one of her favorite pictures—the picture of the original Order from fifteen or so years ago.

She doesn’t think she particularly lied to Professor McGonagall about the life sapped from Sirius whole stuck in Grimmauld Place. Darcy knows that Sirius was not the man he had been before. She knew that he would be different, changed, by his stint in prison. She flips over the picture of the Order to read the scribbled writing on the back, reading the same eight words over and over again.

_To my Darcy—the love of my life,_

Brushing tears from her eyes, she looks down at the Order. James and Lily are smiling, waving at her—Lily so beautiful and so young, James so noble and disheveled, just like Harry. Lupin at her own age nearly takes her breath away, a world weary boy with messy hair, a thin and patchy beard growing in, smiling toothily with his hands behind his back for the first time that Darcy’s seen in the picture. But Sirius is what she’s brought the picture out for, and even in this old and crumpled and yellowed photograph, the change between Sirius there and Sirius as of a year ago is painfully blinding.

This Sirius is just a boy, no older than Darcy is now. There is life in his eyes, a smile on his face that doesn’t seem so forced. The Sirius she’d known had never been able to smile without it seeming somewhat like a grimace, the smile of a man in pain. His eyes had always been cold and flat and dull, though sometimes Darcy thought she could see a little bit of the boy in him depending on their topic of conversation, or whenever Lupin was near.

“Damn you,” she whispers to herself, brushing her fingertips over a more recent photograph of Sirius. Darcy feels her heart shatter all over again, and just as she means to drink herself to sleep, someone knocks softly at her door. She shuts the album quickly, rubbing her face to make sure there’s no evidence of any unnoticed tears. “Come in.”

She’s putting the photo album and pictures back on the shelves, her back to the door as it shuts.

“I’m sorry for speaking to Professor McGonagall that way, but she doesn’t know—” Darcy whirls around, blushing. “Oh, Hermione. I’m sorry. I thought you were Professor Snape. A happier surprise, but . . . shouldn’t you be in your common room?”

Hermione smiles, lingering at the doorway. “I wanted to ask you something,” she says, looking around curiously as if seeing this room for the first time, despite her having been here not a half hour ago. Looking to be fighting some internal conflict, Hermione finally asks, “What exactly did you say to Professor McGonagall?”

Darcy waves a flippant hand, shaking her head. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Does Professor Snape come to visit you here often?”

Hesitating, Darcy considers Hermione. “Be mindful of what you’re asking, Hermione.”

Hermione’s face turns bright red, her hands covering her mouth as if she’s just said something filthy. “I didn’t mean—I never meant to imply—I was only curious—”

Darcy sighs, feeling guilty for reducing Hermione to such a sorry display. “Don’t worry about it. I’m tired of hearing Emily tease me about being in love with Professor Snape. Come here, love. Sit down.” She starts a fire, noticing the reluctance behind each one of Hermione’s steps before she finally seats herself back on the couch, where she’d been sitting before. Darcy turns to face her, the fire warming her back until it burns. “What’s going on?”

“I have a question about . . . well, about you and Lupin, actually.”

Darcy crosses her arms, narrowing her eyes. “I’m not telling you anymore that what you’ve already heard, even if Ginny isn’t here.”

“It’s not like that, I swear it.” Hermione straightens up a little, hands in her lap. “I just . . . you spoke of all the reasons for the two of you not to . . . do it. And did you ever worry that . . . if things didn’t work out, your friendship would be completely ruined?”

The question is much nicer than Darcy expected. She smiles weakly to indicate Hermione shouldn’t be as anxious as she looks, and then Darcy slinks into the armchair Ginny had occupied. She thinks for a long moment, eyes traveling over Hermione’s bushy hair, her sweet little face.

Hermione seems so young, even at seventeen and only a few years younger than she, but she seems only a child. It’s hard to believe that Darcy had been only a year older when she had slept with Lupin, but Darcy can’t remember ever having such a wide-eyed innocence about her, a naivety that Hermione possesses. Darcy had already fucked Oliver Wood multiple times by Hermione’s age, had spent her free time drinking and smoking cigarettes in her underwear. Darcy had thought she was cool for doing those things, had used those things as coping mechanisms, had used sex as a form of gratification, had drank relatively heavily in the hopes of forgetting the worst parts of her life. But it only strikes her now how depressing it all sounds when compared with Hermione’s life—perfect student, prefect, one of the smartest people Darcy knows.

“No,” Darcy answers, her voice hardly more than a whisper, raspy and forced. “Our relationship is very complicated. I think the two of us will always care for the other, even if something were to happen, just because of who we are. And Remus wouldn’t leave Harry, even if he hated me.”

Hermione looks skeptical, lowering her eyes to her hands, still being wrung in her lap.

Darcy can’t help but to smile. “What’s going on? You’re not worried about Remus, are you?” She lets out a soft laugh that doesn’t seem to cheer Hermione. “Hermione, Remus isn’t going anywhere.”

“It’s not that.” Hermione looks up at Darcy again, hardly able to meet her eyes. “I just . . . oh, Darcy, I shouldn’t have bothered you.”

“What?” Darcy asks as Hermione stands up hurriedly, flattening the front of her black skirt. “Hang on, what’s going on?”

“It’s nothing—I mean it. It’s so humiliating—you’ll only laugh at me.”

“Hermione, I would never laugh at you. Just tell me.”

Hermione still refuses, and Darcy stops pestering her for an answer when she sees Hermione is close to tears. _She’s a crier_ , Darcy thinks upon seeing the first one slip down her cheek. _Just like me_.

But Darcy can’t decipher why she’s crying at all—is her deep dark secret truly that humiliating? Or is Hermione frightened of Darcy after she’d lost control that one time and hurt her? It was only one time . . . her fingers hadn’t even left bruises, but maybe they did and Hermione hadn’t told her or shown her . . . Darcy only hopes Hermione knows that she never meant to hurt her, and she never will again . . .

* * *

_Darcy,  
_

_No luck on finding out who the envoy is. Turns out, being Darcy Potter’s friend isn’t something that gives you insight into the Minister’s plans. Who would have thought?_

_You’ll be happy to know that I have ruled out it being Umbridge coming to meet with you. But I would pay good money to see you hex her to bits. God forbid anyone important reads that last bit._

_Anyway, I’ll be lurking around Hogsmeade a little more often these days. I think they’ve grown tired of my questions, truthfully. Probably think Hogsmeade-duty is a punishment. As if!_

_Let’s meet after you speak with whoever the Ministry is sending. I want to hear everything. Also, I can’t wait, I’m just going to tell you. Gemma plans on being here this weekend. It’ll be just like old times! Better clean up your room!_

_Love from,_

_Emily_

_P.S. Cuffe sent you Bertram’s information yesterday. Should be arriving around the same time as my letter._

* * *

_Darcy,_

_What is this madness I’m hearing about you meeting with someone from the Ministry? If you were interested in working for the Ministry, you would have come to me. Because you haven’t, I fear that you’re planning on doing something incredibly reckless and stupid._

_Do not do anything reckless and stupid and save Molly from having a heart attack._

_Love,_

_Arthur_

* * *

_Potter—_

_Here’s the information we have on Bertram. Your article better be fucking good. I liked him, and he doesn’t deserve whatever shit writing your werewolf article was. Make sure you send it off to me with your owl no later than Saturday. Should give you plenty of time for a little editing if need be._

_When can you come into the office? I’ve got a nice, fat contract just waiting for your autograph._

_B. Cuffe_

* * *

“Lots of letters this morning, my dear. Well wishers?”

“One well wisher, one person who thinks I’ve gone completely mad, and one from someone completely unrelated.” Darcy smiles as Slughorn chuckles. “You’ve still no idea who’s coming to meet me tonight?”

“None at all, unfortunately,” Slughorn confesses dramatically. “However . . . I’m  
sure whatever message you deliver will be well received by anyone . . . er, what is your message going to be in the first place?”

Darcy highly doubts that her message will be well received by anyone. At least she can rule out Umbridge. If Percy were to come, it wouldn’t be so bad, either. Perhaps they’ll send someone familiar, someone Darcy knows, but now that she thinks about it, mostly everyone she knows at the Ministry is in the Order, and Darcy doubts Scrimgeour will send an Auror to meet with her. Aurors aren’t famed for their diplomacy.

“Of course I’m not going to cooperate with the Ministry. I’m not doing whatever they want me for.”

Slughorn chokes on his sausage, coughing. Darcy slaps him on the back a few times, bewildered. “You’re not . . . ? But why ever not?”

Darcy smiles nervously, unsure if he’s joking or not. “The Ministry and I have never been . . . friendly, for lack of a better word. They’ve never treated me kindly, so I don’t know why they’d assume I’d change my stance so quickly and without pretense.”

“Just my opinion, my dear, but I think you would do well to hear them out,” Slughorn says. Darcy lets him talk, knowing that he’d take this position. “Even if you aren’t interested, there are advantages to being at the Ministry’s mercy. Bribes to be collected—though I doubt they would call them such. _Gifts_ , more like . . .”

“I don’t want their gifts,” Darcy answers. “And I’m not interested in bribes, either. I refused to cut a deal with them last year, and this year is no different, sir.”

“A shame they didn’t tell you who would be meeting with you,” he continues, twisting the end of his bushy mustache and apparently deep in thought. “I suppose they want to keep it quiet . . . keep you from finding out information about them to use during your meeting . . . it’s what I’d have done.”

Darcy rolls up her letters, chancing a quick glance down the staff table. Dumbledore’s chair is empty, as usual, glittering in the candlelight. Sometimes she sees Snape eyeing the chair as if it’s his birthright to sit there, and other times he ignores it completely. Now, however, he’s looking across Dumbledore’s chair right at Darcy, grinding his teeth with his fork held halfway to his mouth. Even Professor McGonagall, seated just on the other side of the throne-like chair, is watching her closely.

“Excuse me, Professor,” Darcy says, blushing and gathering her things clumsily. “I’ll see you in class.”

She stands up abruptly, ignoring the watchful eyes of Theodore Nott and Draco Malfoy, of Cormac McLaggen, and the other enemies she’s made here by simply being Darcy Potter. Giving Harry, Ron, and Hermione a significant look, the three of them immediately jump to their feet and trail after Darcy as she speed-walks from the Great Hall, sorry she hadn’t brought some of her breakfast along.

She opens the doors to the entrance hall, keeping the creaking and noise to a minimum, slipping out the front doors and hanging around a corner, Harry and his friends following suit. For the end of September, the weather has taken a sharp turn, and it’s clear this winter will be a biting one. Already the wind is cold enough to bring tears to Darcy’s eyes, and sometimes, at night, the wind seems to cut right through her skin. The mountain peaks are capped with snow, and the snow line grows lower everyday. Even the trees on the grounds have shed their leaves—naked things that offer little protection from the wintry sun now.

There had been one winter like this before, Darcy’s third year. It had started snowing mid-September, and seemed to snow constantly until late-February, and the cold was like nothing Darcy had ever experienced. The wind howled day and night, the sky was seemingly always gray, and at night, the windows in Darcy’s dormitory would rattle and rattle and rattle with that wind. There had been several feet of snow on the grounds, and the road down to Hogsmeade and to the greenhouses and Hagrid’s and everywhere important and necessary had to be cleared. Walking on the paths and roads was slightly intimidating with piles of snow over six feet towering over her on either side. Unable to run around properly on the grounds, older students had created a system of tunnels throughout the snow, leading to small little hovels lit by blue flames, housing several students during free time. Darcy much preferred ice-skating on the frozen surface of the lake, where Gemma and Carla would throw snowballs at she and Emily as they held hands and skated around, the giant squid sometimes tapping the ice beneath their feet, or else lifting a tentacle through a hole that had been cut open for it.

Darcy lights a cigarette and smiles at all three of them.

“I’m meeting with someone from the Ministry today. Eight o’clock tonight in Hogsmeade.”

They all blink in surprise, probably searching for the proper words to say. Harry, however, reacts first. Anger flashes in those bright green eyes so like her own, and he pushes her backwards, albeit gentler than Darcy had expected. “You traitor!” he snaps at her. “Forgot to mention that, did you?”

“I’ve been busy!” Darcy argues, trying to keep her voice down. The last thing she needs is for Snape, McGonagall, or even Madam Pomfrey to follow her voice and the smell of smoke right to her. “And you lot rarely come to visit anymore.”

“We’ve been busy with schoolwork and Quidditch practice—”

“You could bring your schoolwork with you, you know.”

Harry scoffs, crossing his arms and shaking his head. “So now you’re going to be working for the _Prophet_ and the Ministry?” he asks, his tone icy. “After all they’ve said about you and Lupin? About me?”

“I’m not going to work for the Ministry,” Darcy retorts, giving Hermione a pointed glare. “And if you’d cared at all to ask me about the _Prophet_ , I would have told you I’m only doing the advice column until Cuffe lets me publish my own articles.”

“If you want to be a writer, then you should have asked Luna.” Harry raises his eyebrows, looking far too smug. Darcy’s in half a mind to slap the smug look right off his face. “You could have written for _The Quibbler_ instead.”

“No offense, Harry, but _The Quibbler_ isn’t exactly a credible magazine,” Darcy says, taking a long pull off her cigarette and flicking it away from her. “I’m not going to write for a magazine that isn’t even taken seriously in the real world.”

“You published your last article in _The Quibbler_ and people took it pretty seriously, it seemed.”

“That was different. It wouldn’t have been taken seriously if your story hadn’t been published alongside it.” Darcy exhales loudly, wanting to scream. “I told you, I’m not going to be Dumbledore’s pet anymore. I’m done holding my tongue around everyone. Let people know what I want to say. The _Prophet_ will allow hundreds of people to hear me.”

Harry softens, but still seems anxious. He bites down on his lower lip, running a hand through his messy hair. “If Professor Dumbledore were here—”

“But he’s not,” Darcy finishes, looking at the three of them. “The night that I met Cuffe, Tonks gave me a letter from the Minister requesting we discuss an alliance of some sort. He’s sending an envoy tonight at eight to meet me in the Hog’s Head. I’ve no intention of working with them, and I plan on making that very clear.”

“You swear?” Harry asks abruptly, frowning at her. “You swear you won’t work with the Ministry?”

Darcy nods. “I swear.”

“You don’t know who you’re meeting with?” Ron asks suddenly, a curious look on his freckled face. When Darcy shakes her head, Ron hums. “Thought maybe they’d send Percy.”

“You reckon?” Darcy chews the inside of her cheek, mulling it over for a moment. It seems unlikely, especially given the history and relationship between Darcy and Percy’s family. “It would be a lot easier to insult the Ministry if I was doing it to Percy’s ugly mug.”

Darcy and Ron snicker together, but Hermione sighs heavily and rubs her temples. “Darcy . . .” she sighs again. “You can’t just . . . insult the Ministry. What if they throw you into Azkaban?”

“Rufus Scrimgeour isn’t going to send me to Azkaban,” Darcy says, unsure of why she’s so confident about it. Maybe it’s because she hasn’t done anything to warrant it, but then again, lots of people in Azkaban now probably hadn’t done anything to warrant their arrest. Fudge was the one who wanted to see Darcy gone from Hogwarts, and Umbridge, as well, but she doesn’t think Scrimgeour really cares if she’s at Hogwarts or not, so long as she’s not disrupting the balance of things. And Darcy doesn’t think she’s really disrupting anything. “He went through the trouble to set up a meeting. He’s going to want me to just stand by the Ministry and look pretty and smile, and I’m going to tell him to fuck off.”

“You mustn’t!” Hermione groans, but Ron smiles, looking fond of the idea. “You shouldn’t have agreed to meet in the first place if you weren’t interested.”

“Oh, come off it,” Darcy scowls, glowering at them all. “Fudge would never hear me out unless it was exactly what he wanted to hear. If Scrimgeour is going to give me the chance to speak, why shouldn’t I take it?”

“Because it would be smarter to hold your tongue,” Hermione says, hands on her hips, fat bag slung over her shoulder. “You don’t know exactly what kind of minister Scrimgeour is.”

“ _Hold my tongue_ ,” Darcy repeats. She knows the words sound nasty coming off her tongue, and she hates herself for it. “Would you do the same in my place? If you had been tortured by these people, if you had gone through what I did, would you hold your tongue then?”

Hermione doesn’t answer, blushing and looking away sheepishly. It’s Harry who gives answer. “You’ll tell us everything?”

Darcy grins. “Of course I will. Come round mine tomorrow evening, with or without the cloak.”

* * *

_Mr. Weasley,  
_

_Don’t worry._

_Love,_

_Darcy_

* * *

_Emily,  
_

_Check me out, writing letters on my typewriter now. It only took me three times to get this right without any spelling errors. Believe it or not, that is a huge improvement for me._

_I’ll see you tonight, but I wanted to show you how cool my typewrit_

_Fucking hell. Key jammed._

_Love,_

_Darcy_

_P.S. Ber-ram seemed an incredibly boring man._

* * *

_B. Cuffe,  
_

_Given recent and current circumstances, I’m a prisoner at Hogwarts. Unless you’d like to speak to Dumbledore about it yourself, you better bring your nice, fat contract to Hogsmeade._

_D. Potter_

* * *

“Your meeting is only two hours away.”

“I know. I can count, you know.”

Snape’s lip curls. “Your tone is not appreciated, Darcy.”

“And you barging into my chambers while I’m in the middle of grading dozens of essays I’ve been putting off for days is not appreciated either,” Darcy responds flatly. With her feet stretched out in front of her, propped on the table, with essays in her lap and an ink bottle threatening to spill on the cushion should she move in any way, Snape paces behind the sofa, out of sight. She can hear the heavy footfalls of his as he walks back and forth and back and forth and back and forth, probably wringing his hands in that way of his, the way he does when he’s anxious, but refuses to show it any other way. “If you continue to let yourself in as you please, I’m going to start locking my door.”

“I’m a wizard. You think I still wouldn’t be able to get in?”

Darcy scowls, even though he doesn’t notice. She’s sure Snape knows the expression she carries without having to see it in the first place. “It’s not about whether or not you’d be able to get in,” she protests, looking over her shoulder to find Snape rubbing his mouth, deep in thought, not even looking at her. “It’s about boundaries. Do we actually need to have this conversation? I don’t just barge into your chambers whenever I feel like it.”

“I wouldn’t put it past you.”

Darcy scoffs, returning to the essay she’d be grading, trying to find where she’d left off. “This is my tenth year returning to Hogwarts, and I’ve never once even seen where you live. It’s probably creepy.”

“I’m sure you know my chambers very well now that I’m in a more familiar office.”

Darcy looks up into the fire, not even going to look at him. But she’s unamused to say the least. “Are you done? Why do I feel we’ve reversed roles and now you’re the one annoying me?”

“Two hours, Darcy—”

“I know,” she says again, truly annoyed now. “You’re making a big deal out of it.”

“You’re not taking this seriously enough.” Snape huffs, sounding like a petulant child. “You do remember what the Ministry tried to do to you last year, don’t you?”

“Professor McGonagall already gave me your speech, thank you very much. And do you know how I know that it was your speech?” Darcy makes a quick spelling correction on Luna Lovegood’s essay. “Because you’re the only person who calls me insolent. Professor McGonagall would never.”

“I thought maybe you would take this meeting more seriously if it came from someone else.”

Darcy sighs. “Professor Snape, I appreciate your concern, but your first mistake was sending someone else to deliver your message as if I wouldn’t listen to you.”

She can almost hear Snape grinding his teeth. “You _don’t_ listen to me.”

“I _do_ ,” she counters. “I’ll admit, I don’t always follow your advice, but I always listen to what you have to say.” Darcy marks Luna’s essay with a hastily written E, moving onto the next. “Do you want to know something? When Professor Dumbledore first offered me a position as your assistant, I didn’t want it because I didn’t want to work for you, or with you, or even near you. I hated you so much.”

“I wasn’t too keen on you, either,” Snape snaps, resuming his pacing, footsteps muffled by the carpet.

“Would you let me finish, please?” Darcy retorts, rolling her eyes. She gives him a moment to make sure all the snide remarks are out of him. “And now . . . three years later, I would beg Dumbledore on bended knee to be your assistant again.”

“I’m touched.” His pacing stops. “You gave this a P? It’s hardly passing.”

“Leave them alone.”

“What is this? Who is Bertram Loughty?”

Darcy places all of her things quickly on the table in front of her, getting to her feet. Snape is flipping through a stack of already graded homework lazily. She storms up to him, slapping his hand away. He looks at her with an expression of outrage and bewilderment, eyes open wide. “Would you quit going through my things and stop your damn fidgeting? I’m trying to work. How would you like it if I went into your room and started fucking about with your things?”

“Is that how you would speak to me?”

“Well, you clearly haven’t noticed that I’m a little busy at the moment.”

“What is this?” Snape doesn’t stop, instead reaching for a bunch of cutouts from the _Daily Prophet_ that Darcy’s been taking care to look through. “You’re taking advice from the _Prophet_ now? Why’ve you cut out only the advice column? Relationship troubles, is that it?” He looks up at her and sneers almost triumphantly.

“Even if I was, I don’t see how that would be any of your business.” Darcy slaps his hand again and he growls, cradling his hand against his chest. “As it happens, I’m heading the _Prophet’s_ advice column starting in two weeks. Cuffe’s having me write a short obituary about his previous writer, Bertram.”

“How did he die?” Snape asks, his eyes narrowing.

“Don’t you know?” she replies, unable to keep a mocking grin off her face when Snape still doesn’t seem to understand. “Your friends murdered him. Cuffe said there was even a Dark Mark set over his house.”

There’s a beat—a single, second-long beat—in which Snape seems to come to a conclusion. Comprehension dawns on his face, he looks from the cutouts to Darcy and back again and back again. Then, his hands are gripping the front of Darcy’s sweater and he pushes her against the wall of her room so hard that she cries out when her shoulder blades connect with the stone.

“Get _off_ of me! What are you doing?” Darcy shrieks in his face. She should have expected it. Perhaps Snape still thinks this frightens her. Once, it had. To be in such a position, pinned to the wall by Snape, fingers curled in the soft fabric of her sweater—maybe two years ago, or even last year, he would have left her shaking and crying. “Professor Snape, stop it.”

“Are you trying to get yourself killed?” he hisses, the tip of his nose mere inches away from hers. “The last advice column writer was murdered by Death Eaters, so you would take up that gauntlet out of . . . what? Spite?”

“Death Eaters aren’t going to get me while I’m at Hogwarts.”

“What about in Hogsmeade? What about every time you decide to run off on your own because you think you know better than everyone else?”

Darcy snarls at him, teeth bared and gritted in a very animalistic way. Snape doesn’t flinch. She quickly grabs hold of his left arm, digging her fingertips into the Dark Mark branded beneath his sleeve until it’s him crying out. Snape staggers backwards for a moment, but reaches out for her again after a few seconds recovery. Darcy ducks under his arm, moving behind him, placing her hands on his back and shoving him hard. As he grunts, chest colliding with the wall, Darcy extracts her wand from her pocket and digs it into the nape of his neck, the both of them breathing very heavily.

“You think you can still scare me into doing or not doing things,” she rasps, “but you don’t scare me anymore, Professor Snape.” Darcy lowers her wand, tossing it back onto the sofa behind her. With her back turned, Snape takes hold of her wrist with one hand, twisting her arm behind her back, the other hand tangling in her hair and pulling her head back hard. Darcy inhales sharply, her arm cramping painfully, his mouth very close to her ear.

“Have you forgotten that there is already a Death Eater inside Hogwarts?”

“You’re not a Death Eater any longer,” she answers in a shaky voice.

“You wouldn’t be so quick to trust me if you knew about the things I’ve done.”

“Professor Snape, _please_ , you’re hurting me.” Snape releases her at once, sending her stumbling forward and rubbing her neck. “What is your problem? Coming into _my_ room, going through _my_ things, _hurting_ me in the place I feel safest. Do you not want me to trust you?”

“Don’t you dare point you wand at me again,” Snape commands, his voice prideful and loud despite his chest still heaving. The adrenaline must be coursing through him the way it is her, Darcy thinks. “You’re going to get yourself killed one day because of your inability to be quiet.”

“Probably, yet I’m slowly making peace with it,” Darcy hisses, her breathing slowing once more, returning to normal. For a moment, they stare at each other, the only sound the crackling fire. “What do I have to do for you to trust me?”

Snape considers her, his lips pursed. His hair is slightly disheveled after their tussle. “I need you to not go through with this . . . madness.”

Darcy clenches her fists in frustration, tears welling up in her eyes borne of that frustration. “I think you should leave now, Professor Snape.”

He lingers for a moment, as Darcy rolls up one of her letters—the one to Emily—and whistles for Max to come. He flies immediately out of her bedroom, landing on Darcy’s shoulder and sticking out his foot. Darcy ties the letter to his leg, allows him to nuzzle against her face and nip her earlobe, and then sends him off to Emily’s, watching him all the way out of the window.

“I have to change now,” Darcy tells Snape. “Are you just going to stand there looking like a fool?”

She expects him to be filled with rage, but when Darcy meets his eyes, his face is surprisingly soft. She almost feels bad for speaking to him the way she did, for treating him the way she did. But there’s something about his expression that she doesn’t like—something that reminds her of the day he’d kissed her in her bedroom at Grimmauld Place, and it makes her cheeks turn pink.

“What?” she asks, trying her best to sound intimidating and frightening and threatening.

Snape opens his mouth to speak, but no words come out. He closes his mouth again, looking pained.

“Trust me,” Darcy tells him. “Everything is going to be fine.”

“Why should I trust you? You’ve never given me reason to take you at your word—”

“I’ve given you plenty of reasons. I’m sure of it.”

“If you wanted me to be able to trust you, then you shouldn’t have left Grimmauld Place that night,” Snape growls.

“You left me there without information for weeks!” she shouts, turning her back on him and looking towards the fire, checking her watch. Butterflies have begun to grow restless in her stomach. “If you were in my position, and you heard that I’d gone to the Department of Mysteries . . . you’d have done the same thing.”

“Of course I would have,” Snape snorts, as if this is the most obvious thing in the world. Darcy closes her eyes, not wanting to look at him or see him even by accident. “I would do anything to keep you safe.”

Darcy doesn’t falter. “Why?” The butterflies flutter all around, monarch butterflies that make her feel slightly sick. Her heart begins to race, drumming hard against her chest, begging to just burst through and escape.

Snape does falter. “Wh—why?” he repeats.

“Why would you do anything to keep me safe?” she asks again, unable to slow her heart. Darcy’s eyes flutter open to watch the dancing fire. “Say it. Say the words.”

“I . . .” Snape pauses, clears his throat. When next he speaks, it’s so soft that Darcy has to strain to hear it. “What difference would it make?”

(stop fucking crying)

_I’m trying._

(cry baby)

Vernon’s voice echoes in her head, one word ringing in her ears. The tears burn, too—they burn her eyes so badly that Darcy has to let them fall. But she will not allow Snape to see them. She will not allow Snape to see that she’s just a stupid little crybaby. “You’re a coward,” she whispers, unsure if Snape is even able to hear her.

Snape inhales sharply, and Darcy shuts her eyes tight again as he moves so close to her and so quickly that she can feel his breath on the back of her neck. “ _Don’t_ ,” he rasps, and though he lacks the venom in his tone, it is a command, and not a friendly one, “call me a coward.”

“Then say it.”

For a moment, just a brief moment, Darcy thinks he’s actually going to tell her. When he makes it clear that no confessions are going to happen tonight, Darcy cries harder, craving the warmth of Lupin’s arms, feeling so alone that it makes her heart ache painfully. It makes her cry even harder when she thinks of what Lupin would say or how he would feel to know about the situation she and Snape are in at this very moment . . . if Lupin knew that Snape had hurt her . . . if he knew that Darcy had urged Snape to tell her how he feels about her . . .

What would she do if he did say it, though? What more could she do than to harbor that secret close to her heart? She doesn’t know _why_ her desire to hear his affection spoken out loud is so strong now. Maybe because she hasn’t gotten the chance to hear it from Lupin lately. Maybe it’s because she just wants to hear him finally admit it.

“No,” he answers finally.

“Then please go.”

Within seconds, the door to Darcy’s office opens and closes.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Easter!

Hestia Jones and Dedalus Diggle are seated in the far corner of the dusty and relatively empty pub.

Even with a tall top hat pulled low over his eyes, Darcy can tell that’s Diggle. He’d been at Grimmauld Place quite often, taking part in Order meetings as much as he was able. He’d been kind to Darcy, as well, though was prone to treating her much like a child. Diggle always had pockets full of candy to give to her—exotic kinds that she wasn’t quite sure about—but she’d hidden the candy in her nightstand anyway and it was good to pick at whenever she was hungry for a snack.

Hestia Jones’ pretty face and rosy cheeks peek out from the hood drawn up over her head. She had been an Order member to come and go from Grimmauld Place, too, but she and Darcy lacked much in common and never spoke much. Though Hestia had always made it a point to flash Darcy a warm smile in greeting, as she had when Darcy first entered the Hog’s Head about fifteen minutes ago.

There are a few other people inside, though none that pay any attention to Darcy. She thinks two men in the corner opposite Hestia and Diggle have made some kind of trade or exchange beneath the table. Behind her is an old woman with white hair and a puffy face in moth-eaten robes that flags down the bartender for her fifth cup of firewhisky and still seems perfectly fine. At another table is a middle-aged couple that can’t get close enough, it seems, locked together in a tight embrace and filling the pub with horrible, wet, kissing noises.

And Darcy knows somewhere inside, Emily is hiding beneath the Invisibility Cloak Harry had reluctantly allowed Darcy to borrow for tonight. The idea of using an Extendable Ear from a room upstairs had been thrown around, but Emily hadn’t been satisfied by that, and she didn’t trust that the Hog’s Head rooms didn’t have bedbugs. Darcy couldn’t argue with that, so the Invisibility Cloak had been thrown over her before walking inside.

Facing the door to the pub, Darcy drums her fingertips against the tabletop. With her other hand, she clutches a dusty goblet filled with sweet red wine. The alcohol has eased her fears very slightly, but as eight o’clock sharp approaches with unprecedented quickness, the butterflies begin to start up again. She draws out a cigarette, lighting it and glowering at the tall, graying bartender when he protests, eventually grumbling under his breath about it, but allowing it all the same. Still shaken from her recent argument with Snape, Darcy is already on edge and in a foul mood, hoping very much that Percy Weasley will walk in with the smug and abusable look on his face. She’d have a field day with that face, easily rattling off all the things she absolutely despises about the Ministry.

A glass ashtray suddenly hovers into view, dropping heavily onto the table in front of her. Darcy looks again at the bartender, who growls, “If you must do it, keep from ashing on my floor, would you?”

Darcy scoffs, looking down at the floor, covered with a thin layer of dust. “It could use a bit of sweeping, don’t you think?”

The bartender scowls, unamused. “Don’t like your cheek, girl.”

She rolls her eyes as he turns his back to her, taking a pull off her cigarette and making such to ash it in the ashtray dramatically when he turns back around. Sighing heavily, Darcy continues to watch the door, her chest feeling very heavy with anxiety as the minutes slowly drag on and on, her wine depleting and depleting with each passing second.

“Here,” comes Emily’s whispered voice from the chair against the wall, on Darcy’s right.

“No one’s coming,” Darcy says softly out of the corner of her mouth. “It’s ten minutes past. You’d think the Ministry would—”

The door opens abruptly, letting in a gust of bone-chillingly cold wind. Darcy shivers as the bell above the door tinkles lightly. The fire in the common room’s large hearth stutters, regaining its stride when the door closes behind the Hog’s Head’s newest guest. The wind continues to howl and pound at the door, settling after a minute or two.

Darcy’s jaw drops slightly, her lips parted as she holds her cigarette inches from her lips. Even Emily gasps softly at the sight of the man framed in the doorway of the pub. He’s drawn everyone’s attention; the bartender stops his slow cleaning of the bartop, Dedalus Diggle watches overtop of a menu, Hestia Jones cranes her head just barely to see over her shoulder.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Darcy breathes, feeling paralyzed in her seat as his eyes meet hers across the pub.

Cornelius Fudge removes his lime green bowler hat, takes a quick look around to see who’s here, and walks across the pub to the table that Darcy is seated at, footsteps muffled by the dust that’s been swirled about by the recent wind. Without even greeting her, places his hat on the table, removes his gloves and scarf to place them with his hat, and hangs his thick, black traveling cloak on the back of his chair, directly across from Darcy. She watches him all the while, not moving, biting back the bitter laughter that threatens to burst from her, but she knows there’s an incredulous and almost mocking smile tugging at her lips. Finally, Fudge sits down, eyes flicking from Darcy’s to the cigarette in her hand and then to the goblet in front of her.

As Darcy places the cigarette butt to her lips again, Fudge asks stiffly, “More wine?”

Darcy gives him a small nod, tracing her bottom lip with her thumb. Fudge flags down the bartender in a seemingly unconsciously haughty way.

“More wine for my friend,” Fudge tells the bartender, who eyes Darcy warily. “And whatever your strongest drink is for me.”

A small, glass tumbler is set in front of Fudge, sent over from the bar with magic. The bartender pours Darcy’s goblet full of wine again, and then pours a clear liquid into Fudge’s glass. Putting out her cigarette in the ashtray, she’s able to get a good look at Fudge, trying to remember if he’d looked so harassed and aged when she’d seen him at the Ministry, the night he had seen Voldemort in the flesh.

Retirement does not suit him. His gray hair has thinned somewhat dramatically, and his face is droopy and sad-looking, with dark bags under his eyes. He looks to have aged ten years overnight, his skin tinged yellow, thin lips dry and cracked, his hands constantly moving in a very anxious manner. Beneath Fudge’s typical pinstriped suit, Darcy imagines he’s gotten much thinner, given that the fabric hangs off him instead of clinging to him, fitting rather well like the suit had been tailored just for him.

“Does the Minister not respect me at all, or were you the only one to volunteer for the job?” Darcy asks, brushing some dust off the lip of her goblet before drinking from it.

Fudge leans forward, elbows coming to rest on the table. “The Minister thought sending me as a delegate would be most appropriate.”

Darcy sniggers softly. “Did he? Because he didn’t see fit to tell me.”

“I warned him that if you knew I was coming, you might not agree to meet.” Fudge raises his eyebrows, looking down at his drink and lazily tracing the rim of his glass.

“Maybe you know me better than I give you credit for.”

Fudge inhales deeply, taking a long sip of his drink, cringing at soon as it hits his tongue. Darcy drinks deep from her own goblet.

“Heard you were chased out of your office.”

He gives her a scornful look over the top of his glass. “No, I resigned.”

“You were sacked.”

“Resigned,” Fudge insists, wringing his hands together. All of his fidgeting and nervousness makes Darcy’s anxiety melt away. He seems small here, across the table. No power, no influence . . . he is nothing, and it pleases her in some strange and unnatural way. His eyes dart away from hers. “ _After_ the people had demanded it . . .”

“Sure,” Darcy answers shortly, reaching for a new cigarette and lighting it. The smoke encircles them, but Fudge doesn’t seem bothered.

“I see you’re back at Hogwarts. Enjoying yourself, are you?”

“Yeah,” Darcy answers, leaning back in her chair. All courtesies are pushed from her brain; as if Fudge deserves a moment of her polite little lady-like courtesies. “Might not have come back had my godfather lived, but . . . I didn’t think much in regards to living alone.”

Fudge exhales loudly, rubbing his face in exasperation. “I am not going to sit here and deny that a mistake was made in regards to your godfather’s imprisonment, but I will not shoulder the responsibility of his death.”

Though the mention of Sirius makes Darcy grow cold, she keeps her small smile on her face. “Let’s not pretend it was a mistake,” she replies. “I told you he was innocent.”

“All the evidence was against him and you.”

“So my meeting a perfectly alive Peter Pettigrew and hearing his confession was evidence that supported Sirius’ guilt?” Darcy asks with a cocked eyebrow. She drinks again, takes a drag off her cigarette. “All you had to do was look at my memories, or dose me with a Truth Potion. Things we could have done at Hogwarts that very night.”

“Tell it true, Miss Potter,” Fudge answers, deflecting her question to regard her with a cautious, but curious look. “Did you have anything to do with Black’s escape from Hogwarts?”

Darcy’s smile widens. “Of course I did.”

Fudge shakes his head in disbelief. “Severus had the right of it.”

She shrugs, swelling with pride. She tries to imagine the irritation Fudge must be feeling, knowing that Sirius Black had escaped because of her—or so he thinks. Darcy isn’t fool enough to confess Harry and Hermione had a part of his rescue, as well. Regardless, confessing to doing something directly under the Ministry’s nose to the former Minister of Magic gives Darcy a savage pleasure.

“Let me ask you something,” Darcy says suddenly, tucking her hair behind her ears, smashing her cigarette out in the ashtray. “Why do you hate me so much?”

“That’s a very loaded question, and a filthy accusation.”

“It’s all right,” she assures him patiently. “If you didn’t hate me, you wouldn’t have wasted so much time trying to put me into Azkaban.”

Fudge looks as if he’s expected this. He hangs his head like some pathetic old dog, causing Darcy’s anger to bubble, a dangerous thing when she wants so badly to keep her head, to not lose her temper. “Miss Potter . . .” he begins, swallowing loudly. “I am sorry for the things I’ve said to you—”

“I don’t care what you’ve said to me,” Darcy interrupts, keeping her eyes fixed on his face, even while he tries determinedly to look away from her. For a moment, Darcy thinks Cornelius Fudge is the best outcome of this. She doesn’t dare imagine what Snape might say when he finds out she verbally abused the recently ousted Minister. “You allowed Dolores Umbridge to torture me at Hogwarts for the majority of the previous school year. And maybe you didn’t realize the extent . . . but, it’s fine. I bear no lifelong scars. Physically, anyway. That doesn’t bother me half as much as what you’ve done to everyone I care about.”

Darcy pauses, expecting Fudge to protest, or jump to the defensive. But he doesn’t. He only holds his head in his hands.

“You allowed the _Daily Prophet_ to make a mockery of Harry. You refused to give my godfather a fair trial, confining him to caves and the home he so hated. You attempted to have Remus tracked down—not because of what you may think he did to me, but because you were blinded by prejudice. While I may not have scars from Umbridge’s torture, Harry will bear scars for the rest of his life because of her. Shall I go on, or have you heard enough?”

“Enough,” Fudge says hoarsely, drinking again that clear liquid and shuddering as it runs down his gullet. “I know what I have done. I did it to protect my people . . . _our_ people . . . surely you realize that all I did, I did to alleviate their fears of war . . .”

“They were not noble actions,” Darcy retorts, frowning. “They were the actions of a coward, a man who refused to stand and fight against Voldemort. A man so blinded by his ego that he couldn’t see two feet in front of him. You would have thrown me in Azkaban to rot—a twenty-year-old girl. On what grounds, Mr. Fudge, did I deserve that sentence? For what crime did I deserve that punishment?”

“You were too close to Dumbledore,” he admits, and Darcy’s eyebrows shoot up to her hairline, not having expected such an answer, or one at all. “You were a threat to the peace we had established, the entirety of my administration. By labeling you a criminal . . .” Fudge looks up into her face, seemingly remorseful. “We needed to discredit you. People tend to believe whatever pretty women spout at them, and you weren’t helping the Ministry.”

Darcy smiles again. “Which brings us back to why you’re here, doesn’t it?”

Fudge’s mouth becomes a thin line. And then—“Yes, I suppose it does.”

“People close to me seem to think the Minister wants me to be the Ministry’s mouthpiece.” She sighs heavily, finishing her wine. “Because people will believe anything if a pretty girl is spouting it at them, right?”

“What are your plans with the _Prophet_ if you’re not interested in being a mouthpiece?” Fudge asks.

For the first time, Darcy falters. “What?”

Fudge smiles triumphantly. “Nothing that happens at that paper is unknown to the Ministry.” He licks his lips, chuckling to himself. “The Minister is extending to you an olive branch. You would be wise to take it.”

“You haven’t even told me what the job is yet,” Darcy counters coldly.

“It’s quite easy, I assure you. You stand beside the Minister while he gives his speeches, when he gets his picture taken . . . and you will publicly announce your loyalty to the Ministry.”

Darcy shakes her head. “What makes you think I would ever proclaim my loyalty to the Ministry?”

“Because it’s the smart thing to do.” Fudge clasps his hands together on the table. “I’m sure you have demands.”

“What do you think my demands would be, if I had any?”

“To see Dolores Umbridge sacked.”

“Excellent guess,” Darcy chortles. “Go on.”

“Some werewolf protection law, I’m assuming.”

Darcy nods, tapping her chin. “Another good guess.”

“A nice, fat sack of gold, as well.”

She hums. “I’m not interested in gold.” Darcy leans forward, the smile fading from her face. “You’ve forgotten something, Mr. Fudge.”

Fudge’s face is flushed now, but due to the alcohol or her words, she isn’t sure. “What else could you possibly want?”

Darcy exhales through her long nose, speaking in a low voice. “I would see the Ministry of Magic burn to the ground before I ever cooperate with them.”

There’s a deafening silence that follows this admission. Darcy moves her foot slightly to the right, feeling Emily’s invisible foot still there. It gives her courage, a sense of bravery. Fudge flushes deeper. “Is that a threat?” he hisses.

Darcy doesn’t hesitate. “Do you want to find out?”

“I could have you arrested for that.”

“But you won’t.”

Fudge grinds his teeth angrily. “Is that your _official_ statement, then?”

They look at each other for a long time. “Yes.”

“Then I think we’re done here,” Fudge says, grabbing his hat and forcing it onto his head, slipping his gloves on with unnecessary rage.

“It was good to see you again, Mr. Fudge.” He gives her a pointed look at he stands, digging around in his cloak pocket for money. “Now stay away from me.”

Darcy watches the coins rattle on the tabletop as Fudge tosses them down, and he leaves the pub without another word. When he slams the door shut, all is quiet—until Emily rips the Invisibility Cloak off and screeches, clearly having been holding it in the entire time. Her eyes are wide with excitement, bright blue eyes twinkling with amusement. Her chest is heaving, her hand over her mouth.

“Holy shit!” Emily says breathlessly, a wide smile on her face that makes Darcy blush, shrugging her shoulders. “You just told off the former Minister of Magic!”

“I know,” Darcy replies, and the both of them start laughing quietly together. “Let’s get back up to the castle before he returns with reinforcements.”

Emily shoves the Invisibility Cloak down the front of her jeans (ignoring the weak “hey!” as Darcy tries to protest this), takes Darcy by the hand, and the two of them race to the door of the Hog’s Head. Before leaving, they wave good-bye to Dedalus Diggle and Hestia Jones, who flash Darcy mischievous and excitable smiles.

“Race you to the gate,” Darcy grins.

“Race you to the castle,” Emily shoots back.

“All right—go!”

Emily begins to sprint down the High Street, laughing, her laughter carrying on the night wind back to Darcy, who hasn’t moved yet. Her pocket has grown warm, and she reaches in to grab the burning Knut. The serial number is moving slowly, lazily, and she moves it with slight pushback, her heart leaping in her throat.

“Hey!” Emily shouts. “Stop fucking about with your boyfriend’s coin and hurry up!”

“I’m coming!” Darcy yells, racing down the street with the coin still in her hands.

When they reach the courtyard, they’re both panting. Adrenaline has kept her going, but now Darcy has a stitch in her side from all the running she’s just done, and she puts her hands atop her head, sweat dripping down her back, the cold wind hurting her ears. “Hold on,” she gasps, dropping to her knees a foot from a bench she leans against. “I just have to catch my breath real quick.”

“Has the walk always been that long?” Emily breathes hoarsely, slumping down beside Darcy, and inhaling loudly. “Now I understand how you’re so fucking skinny.”

“You've still got the cloak, right?”

“Yeah, it’s a little sweaty, though. It’s washable, isn’t it?”

“I don’t fucking know.” They both laugh again, jumping as the front doors creak heavily. Pushing herself to her screaming feet reluctantly, Darcy brushes herself off as light comes spilling from the entrance hall, making her squint as her eyes adjust to it.

“Dare I ask what the two of you are doing?” comes Professor McGonagall’s sharp voice. She casts a long shadow, as well as the girl beside her, mousy-haired Tonks. “Oh, good. You’re back. Who did the Ministry send to meet with you, Potter?”

“Professor McGonagall,” Emily says cheerily, clinging to Darcy’s arm tightly, her fingernails sharp even through her sweater. “Darcy just made Cornelius Fudge look like a complete idiot in the Hog’s Head.”

McGonagall’s face blanches. “They sent—Fudge?—but what?—Potter—even your father _never_ —how could they—what have you—”

As McGonagall splutters and stammers and tries to grasp what it is Darcy has done, a genuine and wide smile graces Tonks’ face, her hair lightening a shade. “What did you say?”

Darcy can’t help but to smile back at Tonks, feeling a surge of guilt wash over her. “Something reminiscent of . . . well, watching the Ministry burn before I work with them.”

Tonks throws her head back and laughs loudly, Emily joining in with her. Darcy’s mouth is open, the laughter being pulled from her without warning, and then there’s a flash of emerald green fabric and McGonagall is suddenly beside her, lips pursed tight and nostrils flared, her fingers pinching down hard on Darcy’s earlobe as she pulls her towards the castle.

“Ouch! Hey—stop! Stop this! You can’t do this! I’m a _teacher_!” Darcy protests, being dragged along by McGonagall as Emily and Tonks follow behind, still laughing together behind their hands. “Professor, stop!”

When McGonagall releases Darcy’s ear, it gives a sharp and painful throb. Darcy massages it gently, whimpering for a moment. “Go back to your room this instant, or so help me . . .” Professor McGonagall’s face is still devoid of all color, but there’s rage in her eyes. “This is exactly what Severus and I were trying to prevent, but I should have known better than to expect you to have listened to anything we said to you . . . didn’t I say to you not to say anything that might warrant your arrest? Didn’t both Severus and I tell you not to be insolent? And you come back here and tell me that you’ve threatened to burn the Ministry of Magic to the ground?”

The laughter has stopped, and the entrance hall is suddenly far too quiet for Darcy’s liking. “Technically, Professor,” Emily supplies, clearing her throat from behind Darcy, “she only said she’d _rather_ see the Ministry burn than work with them. She didn’t make any direct threats, really. I was there the whole—”

“Enough, Duncan,” McGonagall snaps, eyes still fixed upon Darcy’s face. “Perhaps it was not a direct threat, but a veiled threat is just as bad. I don’t know what could have possibly possessed you to speak that way to Cornelius Fudge—what would Professor Dumbledore say if he knew what was said tonight?”

Darcy flares. Her entire body feels hot and tingling with anger, jaw clamping down hard to keep her from screaming aloud in frustration. “Professor Dumbledore would rather see the Ministry walk all over me, just like he had me do last year!”

Sympathy shows in her eyes before anger does. “Dolores Umbridge was very dangerous, and Dumbledore recognized that—”

“Then he should have let me stay with Sirius earlier instead of turning a blind eye to all the times she hurt me and waiting until I was threatened with Azkaban!”

Professor McGonagall bristles, looking past Darcy to Emily and Tonks. “Duncan, Tonks—please escort Miss Potter to her room. Now.”

“You can’t tell me what to do,” Darcy hisses, breathing very heavily out of anger. She can feel the angry tears welling up in her eyes, and the first tear slips down her cheek when Emily’s dainty fingers curl around her arm, and Tonks’ hand comes to rest on Darcy’s shoulder, both of them trying to urge her away. “You, Dumbledore, Snape—you think you’re my family and that you can tell me what to do, but you’re not my family. You’re not my _parents_.”

“Be that as it may, you are still an employee of this school, and until you are no longer, you will defer to my instructions, to Professor Dumbledore’s instructions, and to Professor Snape’s instructions. Is that clear, Potter?”

Darcy growls through her gritted teeth, held in place by Emily and Tonks, whose attempts at talking her down go unnoticed by Darcy, whose pounding pulse drowns out their voices. “You would confine me to a room because you’re afraid I’m going to mess up? To make a mistake?” Darcy snaps. “That’s exactly what you did to Sirius, and he died a prisoner!”

“What would you have had me do? Hide him away in the castle?” McGonagall replies, clearly trying very hard to hide her fury. “You lost your freedom to do whatever you please when you decided to leave Grimmauld Place to enter the Ministry of Magic at the word of _Kreacher_ —”

“I did it _for Harry_ —”

“After receiving _explicit_ instructions from multiple people to stay put!”

Darcy quiets. Professor McGonagall has never shouted at her before, nor spoken in a tone not laced with sympathy and care.

“I have never known you to be an arrogant girl, Potter,” McGonagall says dangerously. “But it is arrogance that led you to speak to Cornelius Fudge the way you did today. It is arrogance that leads you to go wherever you please without letting us know first. I will make sure your Hogsmeade trips will be prohibited if this continues.”

“I have more freedom at Privet Drive,” Darcy spits. “At least Aunt Petunia lets me leave the house without questioning me.”

“Then go back to Privet Drive if life there is so much better than it is here at Hogwarts.” Professor McGonagall exhales loudly, adjusts the hat upon her head, and takes a step closer to Darcy when she has no response. “I know that you are feeling anxious about Remus, but—”

Darcy screams, unable to stop herself. She tears herself away from Emily and Tonks, wiping the tears from her face angrily. “I’m not angry because of Remus!” she growls. “You’re so quick to pin my problems on Remus instead of admitting that maybe it’s your own fault for expecting me to blindly follow instructions!”

Professor McGonagall gives Darcy a long, hard look. “Duncan and Tonks will escort you to your room now.” She beckons the girls forward with her index finger. “This discussion is over. I’ll hear no more from  
you.”

“I can get there myself!”

Darcy storms up the marble staircase alone, leaving Tonks and Emily bewildered and Professor McGonagall furious. She knows what she must look like to them—a child throwing a tantrum, but how else can she make them see? Sirius would never have chastised her for speaking to Fudge that way . . . he would have encouraged it, would have showered her with kisses, would have smiled at her and laughed about it over drinks. Sirius would have never torn her down for such a thing—her own family wouldn’t have made her feel bad about something that, only a few minutes ago, she had been really proud of.

_And maybe therein lies the problem. Sirius would have agreed with me and what I said._

Darcy settles herself on her sofa with a fire burning, wrapped in a blanket, drinking out of a bottle of wine like some uncultured animal. She doesn’t care. The run up to Hogwarts had made her sweat out whatever wine she’d drunk in the Hog’s Head, and she suddenly remembers that Emily still has the Invisibility Cloak. For a moment, so overjoyed with her victory over Fudge, Darcy had even been willing to make a truce with Tonks, to smile at her and shake her hand or hug her and let her know that she does appreciate Tonks sending a Patronus to Darcy about Harry, regardless of the form her Patronus had taken.

She can’t figure out why McGonagall was so angry. Sure, Darcy had gone against her wishes of saying something threatening (she doesn’t really intend to burn the Ministry to the ground, though she has to admit she’d be happy to bask in the glow of the fire if it did), but Darcy knows that no one is going to arrest her or put her in Azkaban. Scrimgeour had been willing to work with her, to extend a hand of friendship and alliance, even if Darcy doesn’t want to accept it. It would be in poor taste for the Minister of Magic to send someone to Azkaban simply because she didn’t want to work with them. It’s not like they can frame her as a Death Eater when she’s so clearly not, so what other reason could he possibly come up with to explain a possible arrest?

The more she drinks, the harder it becomes for Darcy to dwell on the reasoning behind everything. It is, however, much easier for her to dwell on the anger McGonagall had instilled in her, the bitterness and anger and frustration she’s been feeling on and off towards Hogwarts for years now. What she wouldn’t do to go back to the first year she’d come on as Snape’s assistant, where the most pressing issue was she and Snape’s touchy and sometimes threatening relationship. Things had been easy during the beginning of that school year and she hadn’t even stopped to appreciate it, too focused on Harry’s new position as champion during the tournament and the creepy man she thought had been Mad-Eye Moody. It’s only gotten harder since, and more unsettling people have come and gone since Barty Crouch Jr. was found out—Umbridge, in particular.

Darcy reaches for another cigarette, putting it to her mouth and lighting it. She extends her hand, flexing it, remembering the bruises Umbridge would leave on her knuckles. As cruel as those punishments were, Darcy had never cried in front of her. Her eyes had shone with tears, she’s sure, but not a single tear ever dropped until she set foot out of the classroom. And while Darcy hadn’t truly trusted the Ministry of Magic until Fudge’s moronic decision to believe Snape over her and her brother and their friends about Sirius and Peter Pettigrew, Darcy had turned her back on the Ministry altogether after Umbridge. Any sane person would after what she and Harry had gone through.

It’s nearing one o’clock in the morning when her door opens without so much a knock. She doesn’t have to turn around to know who it is. The door closes softly and heavy footsteps bring Snape into her peripheral view. He sits beside her silently, looking at her, making her feel small, making her feel stupid and childish, making her blush.

“So . . .” Snape sighs, waving his wand to produce two wine glasses. He pours the remains of the wine into them both, giving Darcy a little more than he pours himself. “The Ministry of Magic sent Cornelius Fudge to strike a deal with Darcy Potter.” His tone is gentle, surprisingly so. “I feel we should have seen this coming, though I doubted the Minister could be so foolish. Now we know.”

Darcy watches him, not knowing what to say. Her head hurts, and she’s tired and drunk. She takes a pull of her cigarette and doesn’t protest when Snape slowly reaches up to take it right from between her lips, putting it out in the nearby ashtray.

“A filthy habit, as I’ve told you several times already,” he says. “I’ve heard Minerva’s very loud testimony, and now I would hear yours.”

“Why? Are you going to punish me?”

Snape rubs his temples. “It’s very late, Darcy. I just want to know what happened.”

So she tells him. She tells him how she’d felt no fear while sitting face to face with Cornelius Fudge, how she’d been consumed with hatred for the man who allowed so much to happen under his watch. She tells him the honest truth, their entire conversation nearly word for word, and then Darcy’s conversation with McGonagall shortly after that. Snape doesn’t react to anything, only looks at her with a blank face, taking in everything that she says and not looking at all disappointed or angry or exasperated with her.

When she finishes, Snape is quiet for a long time, turning his attention onto the fire. “You will apologize to Minerva tomorrow for the things you’ve said.”

“You can’t tell me what to do. I work for Professor Slughorn now, not you.”

“But you will do it anyway.”

Darcy lowers her head, not realizing she could feel any worse. “Yes, sir.”

“Good girl.” The words make her heart flutter, such simple praise. Snape gives her a sideways look, eyes flitting quickly over her face. “Are you all right?”

Darcy nods. “I didn’t mean it, you know, what I said to her,” she croaks, her mouth very dry despite the influx of wine she’s been drinking. “With Sirius dead and Remus gone for . . . who knows how long . . . besides Harry, you’re the closest thing I’ve got to family here. I’m sure Harry doesn’t see you the same way, but it’s how I feel.”

(i could be your family)

How long ago had she said those words to Lupin? They’d been drinking, both drunk, and he’d sat in stunned silence for a few seconds before kissing her, and they’d fucked clumsily on the sofa, sweating and panting. She’d been so in love with him then. She’s in love with him now.

(we’d never have to be alone again)

Each snap of his hips had seemed like some kind of promise—a promise never to leave her, a promise to always love her, a promise to be her family. Now that he’s gone, those promises mean nothing, and maybe they were never really promises after all, and she’d just hoped they were.

Without warning, Darcy bursts into sobs. She cries into her palms, shocking and startling Snape, feeling so lonely that it’s painful. To know that she’ll have to go to sleep alone and wake up in an empty bed is heartbreaking, and to celebrate her hollow victory alone is heartbreaking, and the knowledge that the only other person besides Harry that’s here, that she loves, is Snape is still odd to her.

Snape clears his throat, shifting awkwardly beside her. “Why are you crying?”

Darcy lifts her face from her hands, momentarily distracted by the look on his face—one of absolute confusion and wonder, as if he doesn’t know her at all. “Why am I crying?” she asks, smacking his upper arm with the back of her hand with a sharp _whap_! Snape flinches as her fingertips meet his arm. “Because my godfather is dead, I don’t know if Remus will ever come back to me, Dumbledore is going to come back and kill me, and—” She stops abruptly, looking Snape over, catching herself before she vomits up information about the prophecy. He’s still in those stupid black robes, even at one o’clock in the morning. God forbid he seem vulnerable in front of her for more than a second. “What do you care? It’s not like you give a damn about Sirius or Remus.”

(but he gives a damn about you)

Sometimes, maybe.

Snape scrunches his nose, just as he always does when he’s about to say something hurtful or nasty. But he holds his tongue, and the seconds drag on and nothing hurtful rolls off his tongue at all. “Please stop crying,” he tells her—requests—awkwardly.

Darcy’s tears slow almost at his command. Feeling very lonely and very upset and very disappointed, her pride having been torn to shreds by McGonagall a few hours earlier, she moves closer to him. Snape tenses, his entire body suddenly stiff as a board. Darcy takes his wrist and lifts his arm, moving underneath it and releasing her grip on him. His arm drapes around her shoulders, and Darcy rests her cheek against his chest, just listening for a moment as silent tears continue to stain the front of his robes. His heart is beating faster than she’d expected it to, but maybe she’s used to listening to the steady drumbeat of Lupin’s heart that never fails to bring her comfort.

She closes her eyes, nuzzling into his chest. It’s hard to believe she hadn’t realized until now how much she needs and craves touch, simple contact. To have something or someone sturdy to lean against—that’s all she wants. After maybe three minutes or so (with all the wine she’s drunk, her sense of time is not so good), Snape feels comfortable enough to move; he slumps slightly against the couch to make the position more comfortable for Darcy, his arm tightens around her, his middle finger lightly brushing the very end of the longest scar on her shoulder over her sweater. There’s silence, and it’s comfortable, and Darcy feels almost free, not feeling the need to explain herself. To just be here is enough. To be held is enough.

It’s intimate, a different experience than when he’d held her upon pulling her from the lake, and different from when they’d both ventured into the Pensieve, different from when he’d held her after Sirius died. Those times it had felt almost desperate, tangling her fingers in his robes to ground herself, to know that he was real.

Darcy squeezes her eyes shut tighter, trying to imagine that it’s Lupin with her, beside her, holding her. But it’s wrong—it’s all wrong. It’s painfully obvious, just by the lack of warmth coming off him, that it’s not Lupin. He’s gone, and Darcy doesn’t know when he’ll ever come back . . .

“Please don’t ever leave me,” she hears herself whisper.

Snape doesn’t answer. She can feel him swallow hard against her, rest his smooth cheek to the top of her head. He sighs heavily, his chest expanding with Darcy still lying against him. And then, he places his free hand to her right shoulder and sits her up enough to slip free of her. Darcy watches him sadly, feeling humiliated and heartbroken. Snape takes her hand gently, thumb brushing over her fingers. He refuses to meet her eyes all the while, getting slowly to his feet, his hand slipping from hers, and he leaves her without even a good-bye.

Everyone leaves in the end, she thinks. But at least he was honest enough to not make any empty promises.

* * *

The next few weeks go by quickly, much to Darcy’s pleasure.

She goes to apologize to Professor McGonagall first thing before breakfast, making sure to look extra nice to make it seem genuine. Darcy braids her long, auburn hair down the side and puts a bow at the end of it, wearing a dress she’d received from Gemma for her birthday last year. When she looks at herself in the mirror, she feels the bow makes her look too much like a fourteen-year-old girl, and she throws it back on her bed before she leaves, not wanting to seem more of a child to McGonagall.

“I’m sorry for what I said to you last night, Professor,” Darcy tells her, looking down at her feet when her hands held behind her back. “I was only angry and I didn’t mean any of it. I never meant any disrespect to you. And I’m sorry that I ignored your wishes and spoke to Mr. Fudge the way that I did.”

Darcy lifts her eyes after a few seconds go by and McGonagall doesn’t answer. “Well,” McGonagall sighs, standing up from her desk and moving around it, nearer to Darcy. “That was the most practiced apology I’ve ever heard in my life, but I appreciate it all the same. Come here, Potter.”

She takes a few steps closer to McGonagall, who abruptly puts her hands on either side of Darcy’s face and leaves a wet kiss on an exposed part of her cheek. Darcy blushes.

Darcy, that evening, relays her conversation with Fudge yet again to Harry and his friends, and while Harry and Ron are delighted to hear it, Hermione seems wary and mislikes the fact that Scrimgeour had sent Fudge to speak with Darcy, given their history. Darcy isn’t even half as excited to tell them after her encounter with Professor McGonagall, and she feels the story falls flat and does sound rather stupid when she hears it all over again. When she tells Hermione this in confidence, Hermione only hugs her, and Darcy cries into her bushy hair.

And everyday, Darcy finds herself fearing Dumbledore’s return. While part of her is still very curious about his whereabouts and what he could possibly be doing for such a long amount of time, the other part of her hopes he’ll be gone long enough for everyone to forget what happened between her and Fudge. She’s sure that his reaction will be closer to McGonagall’s than Snape, that he’ll chastise her and scold her until she’s left crying and thoroughly miserable. But he must come back soon . . . he’d promised Harry private lessons, and they’ve only had one, one that had hardly seemed important. While Voldemort’s past may seem interesting, Darcy can’t see that it will do anything for them.

Her encounter with Fudge does, however, add another difficult thing to the list of difficult things Darcy has to tell Lupin. Not only will she have to show him the shiny burn scar on her arm and her new appointment at the _Daily Prophet_ , but she’ll have to confess to the things she’d said about the Ministry to Fudge’s face. She has a hard time believing he won’t be absolutely exasperated upon hearing it.

Consumed with work, Darcy finds it easier to get through each day. She spends her evenings grading papers and listening to music with Max, gets Bertram’s obituary sent off to Cuffe early, McGonagall allows Cuffe into the castle so Darcy can sign her contract (half a page long, her signature promising that she must stay on with the _Prophet_ for at least three months before making a decision to quit, promising her a small sum of gold to fill her vault at the end of every week, and promising that she’ll write nothing about werewolves), and he even compliments her on the obituary, staying a little longer to drink to Bertram. He leaves misty-eyed and grateful to Darcy for her kind words about his old friend. Before he leaves, he asks Darcy to procure a picture of herself for her column. She immediately takes one from her photo album and gives it to him.

Cuffe looks at it for a long time. “Is this a Muggle photograph?” he sighs.

“Yes,” Darcy answers.

“Are you sure you’re a witch?”

“It’s all I’ve got.”

He takes it, grumbling all the while.

Cuffe is the one in the end who decides the piece of advice given for the day. He only sends her one letter for seven days, seven letters in all, and the advice is nothing. It’s what Snape thought it was—relationship advice, career advice for young witches and wizards fresh out of Hogwarts, advice on how to properly defend their home from Death Eaters, advice on how to discipline their children. Darcy finishes them all within a few days, feeling relieved to both be ahead of the curve and that her name and picture look wonderful in print.

Gemma keeps her promise to Emily, as well, and the both of them come to visit Saturday. She is thrilled with all the news—the _Prophet_ news and to hear what was said to Fudge, and they even abuse Theodore Nott and Draco Malfoy and their father’s to make Darcy feel better about the new scars. So happy to see Gemma, the three of them drink until Emily passes out slumped over in an armchair, Darcy vomits into her bathtub, and Gemma drags her into bed afterwards, where they fall asleep tangled up together. It’s so nice to fall asleep beside someone she loves again, even if it is Gemma, and it’s not not to feel guilty about holding her hand and waking up with her arm thrown over Gemma’s bony frame.

“What are we doing today?” Gemma murmurs sleepily as the sun peeks through the tall windows at the head of Darcy’s bed.

“Absolutely nothing,” Darcy rasps back, her head pounding, begging for more sleep.

“Perfect.” And within seconds, Gemma’s soft breathing is the only sound in the room again.

And all the while, Darcy’s nightmares continue to plague her. She dreams of Sirius plucking her from the ruins of her house and Hagrid pulling her forcibly away from her godfather. She dreams of Lupin tearing out her throat and sees herself stained with fresh blood all over her mouth. Sometimes she watches her mother die and sometimes it’s Sirius. Sometimes it’s dark, but whenever she moves, she can hear the crunching of animal bones beneath her feet and the dripping of cold water against a stone floor, sounds that belonged to the Chamber of Secrets. Darcy always wakes drenched in cold sweat, Max already at her side to nuzzle against her, to calm her, but it still doesn’t help waking in an empty room.

Perhaps the worst part of it all is that Snape has been rather cold towards her. He ignores her at mealtimes completely as if she isn’t even there, doesn’t look at her in the corridors, refuses to help her brew a complicated looking potion out of one of her new books. That had offended Darcy, and she’d banged and smacked his locked office door, screaming at him, calling him names and a coward until she’d realized he wasn’t going to open up and let her in, and she’d skulked away in a foul mood afterward.

With all the work she’s been keeping up with and nightmares, Darcy finds it hard to sleep for more than a few hours a night. She doesn’t quite realize how much it affects her until Neville points it out one Monday in October.

“You look terrible, Darcy,” he tells her, walking at her side out of the Great Hall. A crease appears between his brows, soft eyes full of concern. “Have you been sleeping?”

“I’m fine,” Darcy answers with a yawn, ruffling Neville’s hair. Unlike Harry, he attempts to fix it afterwards.

“Have you looked in a mirror lately?”

She has, in fact. Just this morning. The dark shadows under her puffy eyes and the way she holds herself is sad. The color has been lost from her face, giving her a gaunt and world-weary appearance.

“Maybe you should talk to Slughorn. Take a day off to rest,” he suggests cheerily.

“I need one, to catch up on work—”

“Not for work. For sleep,” Neville insists with a small smile. “Did you see? The first Hogsmeade trip is this Saturday. You could take a relaxing trip down with Harry.”

“Maybe,” Darcy says flatly. She looks sideways at Neville. “How are your classes going? I miss you in Potions.”

“I don’t miss Potions . . . no offense. And I wish I could have been rid of Snape _and_ Potions, but . . .” Neville sighs heavily, groaning afterwards. They linger in the entrance hall as a flood of students rushes out of the Great Hall and around them. “I’m doing really well in Herbology, though. Oh, and Gran really liked the advice column the other day, the one about sending her first child off to Hogwarts. She wrote me about it. She said your picture was pretty.”

“Thank her for me,” Darcy smiles. It disappears as she sees Neville’s eyes flick to her right arm. She rolls the sleeve of her robes down.

“It’s awful what Theodore did to your arm,” he says solemnly, getting pushed forward by some seventh year Ravenclaws who need to get by. He waits patiently as Darcy quickly scolds them. “He should have been expelled.”

Darcy, not wanting to discuss it, hurries off to the dungeons.

To her surprise, Neville is not the only person concerned by the state of her. Slughorn mentions in a very passive way about how a Sleeping Draught might make her feel better, seemingly not wanting to force one on her. She excuses herself to check on the students’ progress during Harry’s class, unamused by the comments they give her.

“Darcy, no offense, mate, but . . .” Ron looks her over critically. “You look like you’ve just transformed back from a werewolf.”

“Really witty,” she retorts quietly, with a scornful look at him over his cauldron. “You always know how to make me feel like a million Galleons.”

Harry’s not so brutally honest when she checks his progress, making sure to examine his potion very carefully, seeing that it’s quite good. “You all right?”

“Little tired.”

“A little?”

“A lot.”

When Darcy moves to Hermione’s cauldron, Hermione only eyes her hair and asks, “Er—Darcy? How long has it been since you’ve brushed your hair?”

Darcy gives her a hard look, walking away without giving her answer. But in truth, it’s been about four days, since the last time the Knut had burned, letting her know that Lupin was still alive.

She walks back to her room alone, feeling exhausted as she climbs the stairs slowly. Once, the staircase moves while she’s halfway up, and she’s forced to take quite possibly the longest route to her room. Despite being indoors, the corridor is cold and her office is drafty. And despite it being dry inside, Darcy feels like she’s been rained on all day, sodden and heavy, her feet dragging like a bleeding wolf attempting to crawl into a hole and wait for death.

Upon entering her room and closing the door behind her, Darcy shrugs off her robes and lets them fall to the ground at her feet, tossing her bag aside and hearing the clunk of her books. Max immediately flies from the back bedroom at full speed, unable to stop himself in time before flying into her face and suffocating her with his wings.

“Stop it, Max,” she says half-heartedly. “I’m not in the mood to play right now. Go hunt.”

But he doesn’t retreat, perching upon her shoulder for a split second before flying back to the bedroom and then right back towards her again.

“Max, _go_ ,” she urges in a firmer tone. “I’m not in the mood, I said.”

Max nips hard at her fingers. She gasps and pulls them away.

“Stupid bird!”

He pecks her fingers again, wrapping his talons around her wrist and beating his wings, as if attempting to fly away with her. He seems to be aiming towards the bedroom and Darcy groans.

“If it’s another half-dead mouse, I want you sleeping in the Owlery for the next day.”

Max boots softly in reply, taking her answer for submission. He releases her wrist and flies back into the bedroom, turning sideways to fit through the narrow door. Darcy sighs deeply, holding her wand out to Vanish the mouse.

But there is no mouse. No mole. No rabbit. But there is someone in her bed, fast asleep.

Max is perched atop the headboard, directly above his head, and he doesn’t even stir. Darcy forgets how to breathe for a moment, her heart beating hard against her chest. She closes her eyes for a second, two, three four, opens them again. He’s still there. He hasn’t disappeared.

She tiptoes over to his side and kneels down, knees popping. Darcy brushes the long hair from his face so she’s able to see his eyes, his long eyelashes, the fresh cuts on his faces. She touches him as if for the first time, hardly able to believe this is real after so long of waiting.

And then his eyes flutter open, and Lupin smiles weakly, tiredly. “Darcy,” he breathes.

Darcy smiles, tears brimming her eyes, and within seconds they’re wrapped in each other, a tight embrace that she doesn’t even want to break. Lupin is half-sitting up in her bed, Darcy crying against his shoulder, the hard ground under her knees unforgiving, but the pain momentarily forgotten.

“I’m so happy you’re home,” she laughs through her tears, peppering every inch of his face with soft kisses. “I missed you so much. I love you, I love you, I love you.”

Lupin laughs, helpless to her kisses, but making no move to pull away, his arms tightening around her waist. “I love you, too.”

Max hoots above them.

“Yes, Max,” he laughs again, cut off for a moment by Darcy’s lips on his. When she pulls away, he looks her over with a fond expression on his face before looking up at Max. “And you.”


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! I’m so sorry for the wait. I’m in the process of changing jobs, so likely I won’t be able to update more than once a week if I’m lucky. Sorry! But have this chapter after being so patient!

“These haven’t been treated.”

“I know.”

“The full moon was five days ago.”

“I know.”

Darcy throws him a piercing stare that makes him smile. It’s such a sweet sight, made sweeter by the fact she isn’t dreaming it, but actually seeing it again for the first time in weeks. “You’re lucky they haven’t gotten infected,” she sighs, brushing her fingers around a nasty looking wound running horizontally just below his left breast. That’s the worst one of the bunch, and it’s that one she presses the warm cloth to first with fingers still bleeding from Max’s attack. “I hate it when you can’t use your potion.”

“Probably not as much as I do.”

Darcy purses her lips as Lupin chuckles lightly. “It’s not funny.” She lifts the cloth from his skin. She’s no doctor or Healer, but it doesn’t look to have festered, but it still looks raw and irritated, maybe slightly inflamed. Darcy’s never been good with major injuries, but she wishes she’d learned how to be. “I hate thinking about you all alone and in pain. I wish I could be with you.”

Lupin is quiet for a moment, regarding her with a very critical look, as if she’s joking. “You liked that?” he asks in a low whisper, his eyes following her every small movement.

She stops fussing with wound for a moment to smile weakly at him, nodding. “Yeah.”

“I can’t determine if that makes you brave or foolish,” he teases.

Darcy falters, averting his gaze as a flush creeps up the back of her neck at the memory of Lucius Malfoy. A sudden panic grips her, and she wipes her nose with the back of her hand, thankful it comes away unbloodied, but sure that it’s a gesture he’s not missed. “You’re filthy,” she says.

“I showered yesterday,” Lupin answers, shrugging his shoulders.

“I don’t believe it.” Darcy sees him grit his jaw as she adjusts the cloth. “You should have gone straight to Madam Pomfrey.”

“Can you blame me for preferring your care over hers?” he asks. “I have truly wonderful memories associated with your caring for me.”

“Good to see you still have your wits.” She flashes him a bright smile in spite of everything. Just looking upon his handsome face makes her feel so happy again. “I’m no Healer. One of us should start to practice healing spells, given that they would come in handy, knowing the two of us.” Slowly, her smile fades as she places a strip of clean cloth across the cleaned wound. “Why didn’t anyone help you?”

Lupin grimaces, shifting on the bed until he’s sitting upright. Max has long abandoned the headboard to take his leave of them, presumably to find some animal to bring back to them. He takes Darcy by the hand and pulls her up onto the bed with him. Tugging gently, with a small smile, he coerces her to sit in his lap, a knee on either side of him. “I’m not exactly an honored guest,” he explains, his fingertips tracing invisible lines up and down her arms. “This . . . pack is made up mostly of Greyback’s recruits, sympathetic to Voldemort’s cause. They’re savages, near every one of them, and more in tune to the side of them that I’ve rejected for almost all of my life.”

Darcy frowns, tilting her head slightly. “What does that mean for them?”

Lupin’s face hardens, his hands dropping to rest on her thighs. “They embrace the wolfish side of them, and the perks—in their words—with it. Heightened senses, for instance . . . a taste for blood, a taste for flesh.” He clears his throat. “They could smell it on me. The scent of . . . civilization. The scent of a woman.”

“They could smell . . . _me_?”

“Mm.” Lupin tucks her hair behind her ears, his eyes darkening. “I’ve yet to earn their complete trust.”

“But you’ve been with them for weeks—”

“I came to them an outsider . . . a man who had refused to let the worst parts of him show when they desire acceptance. A man who had lived among wizards and witches, a man who had a woman not long before I arrived.” Lupin looks at her for a long time, and something shifts in him, his expression softening. “You’re even more beautiful than when I left you.”

Darcy drinks in the sight of him. His hair is longer than she’s ever seen it, streaked with more gray than when he’d left, but not enough that it drowns the pretty brown of his hair. There’s a coarse beard on his face, patchy—always patchy, growing around the smaller scars near his mouth and on his jaw. He’s thinner than when he’d left, too. Darcy can see it in his face, the way his cheekbones seem to push against his skin. His shoulders have lost most of the muscle that Darcy’s come to love, and she can see his ribs, but there’s a fierceness that burns in his golden eyes, no longer full of absolutely defeat and agony and suffering. She wonders what he sees when he looks into her own bright green eyes.

“When do you go back?” she asks softly, unsure if she wants to know the answer.

“Two weeks. Two Mondays from now.”

Darcy worries her bottom lip between her teeth. “What if they . . . smell it on you? What if they know you’ve come back to me?”

“Don’t worry. I have a solution.”

Her eyebrows shoot up. “Oh?”

“I’ve decided, from here on out, that it would be wise to take a vow of chastity.”

Despite his deadpan delivery, his face entirely serious, Darcy laughs. “You?” And then—“ _Me_?”

“I was worried you wouldn’t agree,” Lupin grins, the cool and easy smile Darcy fell in love with. “Besides, I’m not cut out for it, I fear. I spent every night thinking about you . . . in the filthiest ways, of course.”

“Save your fantasies for later,” Darcy insists, pouting. Upon seeing her wide, puppy dog eyes, Lupin sighs in defeat, his smile never flickering. “You still have several open wounds that fucking me would surely open further. You need to rest.”

“Forgive me. I’ve been without you for six weeks, and I’ve been thinking of this moment all the time,” he explains, and there’s something playful about his tone that makes Darcy’s loins warm. She blushes, making him smile wider. “You could likely use a good fucking, and then I’d like to talk about what you’ve been doing here at Hogwarts and how you’ve come to be serving advice via the _Daily Prophet_. Or we could reverse the order, if you’d like.”

“And where, in your little timeline, is room for me to fix your wounds?” Her voice grows more serious, despite the desperate want she feels. “You need to see Madam Pomfrey, Remus. A good fucking would be overexerting yourself.”

“Fine,” he says. “Slow and tender lovemaking, then?” Lupin chuckles along with her, sighing contently again. “I want to hear what you’ve been doing while I’ve been away.”

Darcy falters, not quite ready to spoil the bliss that his return has brought. “Tomorrow, my love, I’ll tell you everything,” she whispers. “I promise. I think you’ll find it a _thrilling_ tale.”

“Are you hiding something from me, darling?” he asks, not at all unkindly. It’s teasing, a joke, and Darcy forces herself to smile. “Come here and give me a proper kiss.”

“I need you heal you first. I can’t kiss you proper if you die first of an infected wound. I have some things in my office that will close most of the wounds. This one . . .” She gestures to the largest wound with her head, trying not to move too much in his lap and cause him pain. “This is a claw wound, isn’t it? It looks like my shoulder did, in the brief moment I saw it.”

He nods, looking down it and examining it as if this is the first time he’s done so.

“You didn’t treat it right away. I have a salve I can use that Gemma brought from St Mungo’s, but it’ll have to do much of the healing on its own.” She touches the skin near it, very aware of the warmth radiating off him. She lightly traces small patterns on the skin below his navel, filled with desire, filled with happiness. “I missed you so, so much. Some nights I thought you’d never come back to me.”

He looks sad, then. “Some nights I thought I’d never be able to come back.”

It takes Darcy fifteen minutes to spread the paste around, just like Gemma had told her, and then wrap the wound nice and tight. Always prepared, Gemma had been kind enough to leave some medicines and potions and pastes with Darcy—just in case. Darcy has a feeling now they were never meant for her.

She cleans up her things afterwards, rinsing her hands and putting her potions kit away. Darcy sits cross-legged on the bed beside him, smiling down at him, feeling very self-conscious about her appearance. “I wish I’d known you were coming,” she tells him softly. “I would have . . . cleaned up or . . . at least taken a bath. I know I look awful.”

“Nonsense. You’re the most beautiful sight I’ve seen in weeks.” Lupin bites down on his lower lip, as if to keep from laughing. And then he does laugh, weakly, his eyes shining in the dim lighting of the few lamps lit. “I’m so happy to see you. I want to know everything. We’ve got all night. Why wait until tomorrow?”

Darcy looks away from him, her eyes falling to the thick blanket atop her bed. “Remus, please . . .”

When Lupin continues to look expectantly at her, something flickering in his face that seems to be either concern or anger, Darcy falters. She worries that her expression may have given something away, fears that Lupin will question her about it all right now, when all she wants right now is be happy and enjoy it. It being the last thing she wants to, Darcy resorts to appealing to the side that she knows she can easily overpower and convince to submit.

She crawls atop him again, straddling his waist and causing the corner of his mouth to quirk upward. Lupin settles his hands on her waist as Darcy leans in to kiss him. He breaks the kiss after a few seconds, one of his hands traveling up her back to rest at the nape her neck.

“I know what you’re doing,” he whispers, scoffing. Darcy makes to kiss him again, but Lupin’s fingertips press gently into her soft skin of her neck, keeping her in place and helpless at his touch. “You’re deflecting. Something’s happened that you fear will either anger me or will embarrass you. So which one is it?”

Both, she thinks, but she still doesn’t want to talk about it now. “You should work on your diplomacy skills. That’s not a very kind way to ask your girlfriend for information she’s so reluctant to give up.”

Lupin gives her a roguish smile. “You wouldn’t call yourself my girlfriend unless you were really trying to distract me.”

“I _am_ your girlfriend, aren’t I?”

“It’s juvenile,” Lupin tells her with the same cheeky smile, taking care to accentuate each word and draw it out. His breath hits her full in the face, their lips inches apart. “It makes me feel fifteen-years-old, and the word makes it all seem so . . . shallow and childish.”

Darcy frowns, goosebumps rising on her skin as Lupin’s fingertips press slightly harder against the back of her neck. “So what would you rather I call myself? Your lover?” He’s close enough now that Darcy can move her head slowly from side to side, brushing the tip of her nose against his. She smiles, draping her arms around his neck. “You know what would make it all easier? To call me your _wife_.”

Lupin chuckles, his hand slipping from her neck as she kisses his rough jawline, not at all the reaction she’d expected from him. “You _must_ be desperate not to talk of what’s happened while I’ve been away if you’re able to say such a . . . bold thing without even blushing.”

“You think I’m joking.”

“No,” he murmurs against her hair, opening his neck to her, allowing her lips to place a soft kiss at his pulse. His hands begin to roam, pushing up the hem of her sweater and tracing the curve of her spine. “But I’ll tuck the thought away for another day, when you’re not seated in my lap and on the brink of causing me to make rash decisions based on my lack of self-control around you.”

“You talk too much,” Darcy breathes against his skin, placing another kiss on his Adam’s apple.

“You just don’t want me asking questions.”

“Why don’t you do something more useful with your mouth?”

“I’ve in mind several useful things I can do with my mouth. Do you have a preference?” Lupin groans softly when Darcy rolls her hips against him. “I’m quite good at reciting poetry . . . or I might sing for you?”

“Shut up,” she laughs, kissing him hard on the mouth.

It’s worth it—it was all worth it—to have him here again, setting her heart to fluttering, making her swoon and feel dizzy and drunk with love for him. To be his, to know his kisses, the feel of his hands deftly tugging apart the clasp of her bra, to hear him tell her he loves her over and over again, the practiced words of praise and appreciation and love that Darcy craves so badly.

“Don’t leave again,” she gasps, teeth pressing into the crook of her neck, not hard enough to bruise or draw blood, but hard enough to send electricity from the bite to the tips of her fingers and toes. “Let’s run away together.”

“My love,” Lupin answers, leaving kisses where his teeth have marked her, “we are far beyond the point of running away now.”

* * *

Darcy slips from bed, the cold air blowing in from the open window making goosebumps prickle all over her naked skin. The moon has not yet waned into a thing half-shrouded by shadow, still full enough to spill onto her bed, illuminating the sleeping form of Lupin, propped up by pillows on his back, fresh cloth wrapped around the angry wound that had begun to bleed again less than halfway through their rendezvous, but he’d insisted he was all right and insisted on continuing, even with the sticky blood leaking down his stomach.

The sight of all of it had made Darcy slightly light-headed, and when she’d looked down at her hands to find them stained red, her heart had pounded against her chest with the same ferocity as Lupin’s unforgiving pace. The pain had been so sweet—a pleasurable pain that shot through Darcy and made her feel normal again. If he had noticed something amiss, however, he’d said nothing, and when Darcy had lowered her chest to press against his, her stomach touching the blood smeared all over his stomach, she’d felt as if it was just a dream—one of her dreams, where her lips are always bright red with someone’s blood, where her pulse is always drumming in her ears, where the air smells different, always like fear—and Darcy feels half-disgusted with her body for even allowing her to come while in such a degrading and animalistic position.

In the semi-darkness, Lupin hadn’t even taken notice to the burn on her arm, too focused on the heat between her legs.

Darcy leaves the window open, knowing too well how stuffy the bedroom can get with the windows closed. Pulling on some underwear and a t-shirt on over her head, she sneaks into the living area, lighting a fire and a cigarette and flopping onto the sofa with a sigh.

Near six weeks he’d been gone—all of September, less than half of October. With everything that had been going on last year, his absence was, of course, noted, but hard to dwell on. Darcy’s mind had always been more focused on avoiding the wrath of Umbridge and the Ministry, while Lupin had been—unfairly—pushed to the back of her mind most days. But now, he’s almost all she can think of. Every time she sees the moon peek out from behind the thick, gray clouds that have littered the sky so often this days, Darcy thinks of him. Whenever she opens her photo albums, she thinks of him. She thinks of Lupin when she looks at Snape, when she dreams, when she does anything.

So when he slinks out of the bedroom, sweatpants hung low around his waist, a few minutes later, as Darcy lights her second cigarette, she can’t help but to smile. He drags a hand through his hair, pushing it out of his bleary eyes and and falling gently onto the sofa beside her, pulling her legs into his lap and closing his eyes.

“If you keep leaving the bed while I’m sleeping,” he mumbles, half-asleep, “I’ll have no choice but to tie you down and only release you in the mornings.”

Darcy looks him over, quiet for long enough that he opens one of his eyes to peer at her, smiling. “Is that a threat or a promise?” she asks innocently, tilting her head.

Lupin yawns. “Whatever you want it to be.” He suddenly becomes very serious, too grim for Darcy to even look at without feeling shame brewing in her. “You haven’t been sleeping well. Is it nightmares?”

“Damn you for knowing me so well. How is that?”

He grins, lifting her leg to his mouth to kiss her calf before lowering it back to his lap. “You’re not really a difficult person to read,” Lupin jokes, raising his eyebrows at her. “And I’ve known you for several years now.”

“Three years is hardly time to get to know someone inside and out like you know me.”

“Has it only been three years?” he asks her, the corners of his mouth twitching. “Perhaps my learning has been accelerated because I love you. Or maybe it’s because you’re very like me when I was your age.” He runs the back of his fingertips up and down her shin.

“Professor McGonagall thinks I remind her of you when you were at school.”

Lupin flashes her a warm smile. “And what do you think of that?”

“I don't know. I think she meant it as a compliment . . . or it was a very kind way to say that we’re both very troubled.”

He laughs. “She’s not wrong.”

Darcy thinks on this, putting her cigarette out and laying back on the sofa, admiring his profile. His presence seems to almost have taken her out of Hogwarts completely. For a moment, it’s enough to make her forget—forget about the prophecy, Dumbledore’s lessons, Snape, Theodore Nott, the Prophet, the Ministry . . . it’s just them, for the next two weeks it’s just them, time to be spent loving each other and hoping against hope that they’ll see each other again after he leaves. What she would give to never have to sleep, to be able to look on him always, to watch every simple  
change in his face and to commit them to memory. If he doesn’t come back, she needs a face to remember, to always think back on, and she doesn’t want it to be the hard face of a Remus Lupin who is struggling with what he is. She wants it to be Professor Lupin’s face—always smiling, always cheerful, effortlessly cool.

And yet she can’t help but to allow her worries to melt away as she looks at him, reminded very forcibly that he is hers. Through heavy lids, her eyes move down his body. He is so vulnerable, she thinks, and she’s always liked him this way. To see Lupin among others—among friends and Harry and the Weasleys—slightly stiff and formal, it’s hard to believe that she has the pleasure to see him in this light, as well. Wearing nothing but sweatpants, uncaring about the scars that litter his bare torso, his hair a shaggy mess from sleep, the unkempt beard on his face, he seems—for lack of a better word— _tired_. World weary and exhausted in every sense of the word. There’s a sense of openness that took so long for them to build up to, ending with Darcy being present during a transformation. It’s freeing to know Lupin no longer has to worry about the way he looks or what he is around her, knowing she loves him anyway. To be so comfortable with her that he isn’t ashamed of crawling into her bed when she isn’t around, despite her own discomfit sleeping in his bed without him.

“Are you coming back to bed now that you’ve had your nicotine fix?” It sounds almost like a plea.

Darcy’s small smile fades. “I’ll be there in a little bit. I don’t think I can fall back asleep quite yet.”

“At least come lay down. I’d like to hold you after so long.”

“If I tell Professor Slughorn that I’m ill and won’t be able to make it to class in—” She checks her watch—“four hours, will you stay here with me? Just like this?”

Lupin rubs at the scruff on his face. “Are you going to tell me what you’ve been up to?”

Darcy hesitates, wondering if he’s some idea of what’s been going on at Hogwarts and is trying to get her to confess. “Why are you so interested in what I’ve been up to?”

“Would you rather I not be?” He reaches out for her hand, twining their fingers together with an almost carelessness that makes Darcy falter. It’s the first time they’ve held hands since he’s been back, and the gesture is far more comforting than it has any right to be. Their fingers seem to fit perfectly together, their long fingers holding tight to each other, squeezing lightly every so often to communicate silently. “I love you, and I’d like to know how you’ve been.”

His words make her blush, setting her heart to racing. “I haven’t been doing very well,” she admits, letting the words spill from her lips as if it’s someone else speaking altogether. A crease appears between Lupin’s eyebrows that makes Darcy ashamed. “Theodore Nott did something terrible in Potions class.”

The familiar, wolfish anger flashes in his eyes. Darcy doesn’t flinch, nor does she attempt to pull her hand away from his. “Did he hurt you?”

Darcy retracts her legs from his lap, moving closer to him so they’re sitting shoulder to shoulder. His eyes follow her warily, and flick down to her arm as she holds it out, the burn scar facing up. Lupin takes her wrist gently in one hand, touching the scar with his other, his breathing quickening. Darcy’s jaw clamps shut tightly, feeling very much as if someone’s fingers are wrapped around her throat, crushing her windpipe, cutting off her air.

“What happened?” he growls, jerking her arm closer. Darcy goes with her arm, twisting awkwardly upon the sofa, her chest pressed against his shoulder. “How did this happen?”

“Theodore thought it would be funny, I’m  
sure,” she answers softly, attempting to gauge his reaction. The firelight softens his features, however, and it’s hard to read him. “Likely in some form of revenge for his father, he spilled whatever was in his cauldron onto my arm.”

A muscle jumps in his jaw. He’s wide awake now—there’s no heaviness about his eyelids, no careful fluttering of his lashes. Lupin closes his eyes and rests his forehead against the shiny scar tissue, sighing, before kissing it. “I’ll kill them for what they did to you,” he rasps, nuzzling against her arm. “Both of them.”

Darcy heart very noticeably skips a beat. The gesture means more to her than she can say, so she settles into his lap once more, combing his hair back out of his face to kiss him hard. “You would do that for me?” she pants between kisses.

His fingertips dig into her hips, keeping her firmly in place. “Would you like that?”

She nods, unable to say no. What she wouldn’t give to know Nott Sr. will never touch her or anyone else again, to know she’ll never feel his hot breath on her skin, or know the feeling of his leathery skin touching her, or know the feeling of his erection rubbing against her thigh. And as little as she knows Theodore, Darcy’s sure the world would be better rid of him. He’s sadistic, she thinks, if he hadn’t thought twice of hurting Darcy. How many others has he hurt in Hogwarts already? And how many will he hurt once he’s free to join Voldemort’s ranks outside of school?

And she doesn’t know if it should be troubling that his promise ignites a blistering fire in her core when she pictures Nott at Lupin’s mercy, long fingers wrapped around Nott’s throat just as he’d tried to kill Darcy . . .

Darcy allows her fingers to trace light patterns on the front of his sweatpants. Lupin’s eyes flick down to her hand, but he looks almost instantly up at her again, leaning back against the sofa and opening himself up to her with a single, simple gesture. He releases her waist, resting both of his arms atop the back of the sofa. “That must be the most romantic thing anyone’s ever said to me,” she tells him.

His mouth twitches again as he shifts beneath her restlessly, inhaling sharply through his nose. “Is that so? You can’t think of anything else more romantic?”

Darcy kisses him again, this time tenderly instead of hasty, greedy. “No one’s ever offered to kill for me.” Another kiss, another, one more. Lupin responds eagerly, but still clearly tired.

“What else has happened while I was away?” he asks, his groan vibrating against Darcy’s lips as they trail down his coarse jaw, his neck. “Tell me everything.”

“I negotiated for a job with Barnabas Cuffe,” she whispers against his skin, moving her hips and soliciting a louder groan from his lips. “And I declined to work with the Ministry.” Darcy smiles down at him, her hips working tirelessly. His head lolls back and his eyes flutter closed, his chest heaving. Darcy kisses the hollow of his throat. “They sent Cornelius Fudge to meet with me, but don’t worry, my love . . . Dedalus and Hestia were there to watch out for me.”

“Your attempt at weakening the blow is working,” Lupin says, his voice coming out as a strangled whisper. “If I wasn’t so focused on how . . . _good_ this feels, I’d be outraged.”

“You’ll still be outraged when we’re finished, I think,” Darcy chuckles. She pulls her t-shirt over her head and tosses it to the ground. “But I intend to put that moment off for as long as I can.”

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were manipulating me.” Though it doesn’t stop him from touching her; Lupin’s fingers brush across her stomach, his thumb tracing the hem of her underwear before moving up to palm both of her exposed breasts.

Darcy’s hands gently cover his. “Maybe that’s exactly what I’m doing. Maybe I’m smarter than you think I am.”

“I never said I didn’t think you were smart,” he replies with a hurt look about him. Still cupping her breasts, Lupin presses a soft, lingering kiss to her sternum. “On the contrary, I think you’re one of the smartest people I know.”

For the first time, Darcy falters. Her hips still suddenly against him, her subtle smile turns into a frown, her brows furrowed. Lupin’s smile fades with hers.

“What?” he asks. “Have I said something? I didn’t mean to . . . insult you or anything.”

“Are you mocking me?”

“No!” he protests quickly, wrapping his arms around her waist. “I’m serious.”

“I’m not as smart as you.”

He smiles fondly. “It comes with age.” A yawn escapes him again, and he kisses her collarbone. “You know, I don’t think I know anyone who has so much poetry tucked away in their head. And you’re far more knowledgeable in regards to Potions than I am.”

Though Lupin’s tone sounds genuine enough, there’s something about the easy way the words come to him that unsettles Darcy. “You swear that you’re not making fun of me?”

“Why would I lie to you?” Lupin sighs heavily, reaching up to cradle her face in his hands. “Would you like some more compliments? You need only ask.” A small smile tugs at his lips.

“No one’s ever told me that before, I don’t think.” Darcy laughs hollowly, softly, in disbelief. “I don’t need anymore compliments. Save them for another day. Just tell me you love me.”

She sits up straighter, his head falling back to look up at her. His smile is so beautiful, especially after being without it for so long. It warms her entire being, but not as much as the words that follow. “I love you,” Lupin murmurs, and there is no doubt in Darcy’s mind about the truth of these words.

He kisses her deep, not once complaining of how she must taste like cigarettes, or how tired he is, or how Darcy kisses him back with messy desperation. She wonders if her words of love have a similar effect on him, if he reveres her the way she does him. She wonders if Lupin looks at her with pride—Darcy Potter, apprentice to Potions Master Horace Slughorn, formally to Severus Snape, writer for the _Daily Prophet_ ’s advice column, older sister to the Boy-Who-Lived, or more commonly known as The Chosen One these days, daughter of James and Lily Potter, and goddaughter to Sirius Black. She allows these titles to repeat over and over again in her head, feeling a sense of pride herself, a queer feeling that she’s not used to in the slightest.

_I can be more than sister to the Boy Who Lived, more than just another Aunt Petunia,_ she tells herself. _I showed them._

* * *

Darcy sends Max to Professor Slughorn at first light, apologizing profusely, but telling him she’s too ill to attend class today. She’s sure he’ll understand, and after all, it’s unlike her to take days off.

She and Lupin make up for the sleep they missed throughout the night. Half-naked and tangled up in the blankets, Darcy falls asleep as the sun comes up, curled up against him, her cheek pressed against his chest. His steady heartbeat lulls her to sleep within seconds, the strong arm around her body keeping her warm and safe. She’s so tired that she hardly dreams, and what she does remember of them are good things—her mother and father smiling at her, Sirius holding her tight to his chest.

When they do wake at last, Darcy checks her watch. Dinner is only just starting, though with her office in between her chambers and the corridors, she doesn’t hear the stampede of students making their way to the Great Hall. Lupin is difficult to wake, but Darcy lets him continue sleeping after she shakes him gently and he doesn’t respond. She’s sure sleep is the best thing for him, and slides from bed with a plan to raid the kitchens.

Kissing his temple and dressing in near silence, Darcy whistles softly for Max to follow her, not wanting him to bother Lupin while she’s gone by pecking at his fingertips or nipping at his ears while he sleeps. Her owl obeys immediately, the most obedient owl she’s ever known. Hermione had told her once that pets take after their owners, and after examining Max’s behavior critically (along with Hedwig, Pigwidgeon, and Crookshanks), Darcy couldn’t help but to agree. She thinks of that now, and it makes her think of Marge and those vile bulldogs she breeds. She wonders if Marge has always had that dog-like face and demeanor, or if that only happened after she dove into that stupid career of hers, and it makes Darcy chuckle darkly to herself. When Carla had found out Marge was a bulldog breeder, she had caused an uproar, but there wasn’t anything to be done for it. Thinking of Carla makes her sad.

As she slips into her darkening office, Max perched on her scarred shoulder (she doesn’t feel his talons biting gently into the scar tissue), the door leading outside shuts and Darcy jumps as several people, including herself, yelp loudly. Giving her wand a wave, Darcy lights the candles and lamps that have been placed about the office, allowing her to see the three people who have come to visit her.

Harry stands in front, arms folded across his chest as if prepared to begin scolding her, concern etched visibly on his thin face. His robes hang loosely off his frame, but he lacks his schoolbag and seems red-faced, presumably from hurrying up and down the stairs to and from Gryffindor Tower to relieve himself of his things before dinner. Ron, a head taller than Harry, yet still just reaching Darcy’s height, lingers behind Harry’s shoulder, looking aggrieved and bored, one hand on his growling stomach. Hermione’s soft brown eyes look Darcy over as if able to see right through her to her very soul, making Darcy feel completely naked. Her thick brows are knitted together, much more concern showing than on Harry’s face, which says a lot.

“What are you lot doing here?” Darcy asks with a smile. Though Lupin has only been back for almost twenty-four hours, smiles come more easily and naturally to her.

“You weren’t at breakfast,” Harry says accusingly. “Nor were you at lunch, and you Slughorn said you weren’t in classes today.”

She laughs. “What if I was sick? You came here to chastise me for taking a mental health day?”

“You don’t seem sick to me,” Ron notes, shrugging his shoulders and turning to Harry. “C’mon, mate, she’s alive. Let’s go get some food.”

“If you’re not sick, then what are you doing?” Harry asks again, narrowing his eyes.

Darcy smiles wider. “Remus is back.”

Hermione claps her hands to her mouth. “Is he?”

Darcy opens her mouth to answer, but someone else beats her to it. “He is.”

Darcy whirls around to find Lupin standing in the doorway to her chambers, fully dressed and looking distinctly ruffled, grinning at them all. Max extends his fluffy wings to fill Darcy’s mouth with feathers, leaving her shoulder to rest upon Lupin’s outstretched arm.

“Where are you sneaking off to, love?”

“The kitchens,” she answers sweetly, her heart melting when Max rubs the top of his head against Lupin’s scratchy chin. “I thought you might be hungry, and I haven’t eaten for nearly an entire day.”

“Make sure you get enough for our guests, then,” he jokes, motioning with his head towards the interior of her room. Harry, Ron, and Hermione all look at each other, only moving forward when Ron gives them each a push in the lower back. “Why don’t you call Kreacher to bring you food so you don’t have to carry it all? He is here, isn’t he?”

“You’ve too much faith in Kreacher,” Darcy tells him seriously, scrunching her nose when Hermione scowls at her over her shoulder. “Any meal he’ll bring me will likely be poisoned.” She sighs, following everyone inside, waiting for someone to generously offer to go to the kitchens with her, when an idea so wonderful that it makes her gasp suddenly hits her. “I know! _Oh_ —Remus! Watch this!”

Hermione gives her a bewildered look, flopping into an armchair as Darcy swings the door closed. Harry looks almost disconcerted, wary, as if she’s about to do something reckless or absolutely ridiculous. Lupin cocks an eyebrow, sitting on the sofa opposite Harry, leaving room for her to sit between them.

“ _Dobby_!”

There’s a sudden _CRACK_! that startles everyone except Harry and Darcy. She smiles triumphantly down at her favorite house-elf. Dobby hasn’t changed—nor does she think he’ll ever. His green eyes are still wide and almost childlike, the size of tennis balls and shining in the orange light. No longer does he have hat upon hat upon hat stacked atop his head, but his choice of clothing is still very unnatural—two different socks are pulled up past his knees, one bright orange and the other one black with flashing lights, and he’s wearing an oversized, patched jacket. He does wear only four hats today, with a single hole in the bottom one so one of his ears can poke through comfortably, and what looks to be an old maroon Weasley sweater shrunk to fit. Darcy exchanges a quick glance with Ron’s whose blush gives him away.

Dobby looks up at her in wonder, and he takes Darcy’s hand in both of his own as she kneels down to put herself at a height with Dobby. “Hi, Dobby,” she says with a lopsided grin.

“Darcy Potter,” the elf sighs, releasing her to bow low to the ground. This is not a mocking bow like Kreacher’s, but a genuine sign of respect, and one that makes Darcy blush with all of her friends watching on. “It is an _honor_ to see you again.”

“You know you can visit me anytime you’d like, right?” she asks him, raising her eyebrows. “If you ever need a break from the kitchens, you can always come here.”

“But Miss Darcy Potter has always been so kind . . .” Dobby’s eyes shine with tears, and he suddenly chokes up, looking distressed. “Darcy Potter’s new house-elf is—” His tiny hands jump to his throat, as if going to suffocate. Darcy reaches for his wrists, lowering them from his neck. “Kreacher is—he says that Darcy Potter is an—an—”

“What, Dobby?” Darcy urges patiently, keeping hold of his hands, knowing that whatever Kreacher is saying is likely not very kind. “What does Kreacher say about me?”

“Kreacher says his mistress lies with animals,” Dobby says, horrified, and he immediately breaks free of Darcy’s loosened grip, his clenched fist connecting with his temple and making him stagger.

Darcy laughs softly, even though she shouldn’t. She struggles for a moment to contain the elf, who eventually succumbs and submits, slumping against Darcy’s chest like a weary toddler. “I can assure you, Dobby, I don’t lie with animals.”

“Dobby told Kreacher so,” Dobby tells her, sniffling against Darcy’s shoulder. “Dobby stood up for Darcy Potter and told Kreacher that Darcy Potter is one of the kindest people Dobby knows and he shouldn’t say such things!”

“Don’t worry about what Kreacher says,” she replies. “Look who else is here.”

Dobby, seemingly not realizing that there are others watching on, turns around wildly, clutching his heart at the sight of them all. “Harry Potter . . . it’s Harry Potter . . .” Dobby shuffles forward as Darcy pushes herself to her feet, following him. “And Harry Potter’s Wheezy . . .” Dobby makes the rounds, shaking Harry’s hand and then Ron’s and accepting a hug from Hermione. And then he stops in front of an amused and slightly shocked Lupin sheepishly. “Dobby must offer many apologies, sir. Dobby does not know you, sir.”

“I’m the animal that Kreacher mentioned,” Lupin tells him playfully, and Darcy gives him a stern look when Dobby looks over his shoulder for help.

“He’s joking,” Darcy says curtly, sitting down beside Lupin. “Don’t listen to him, Dobby. This is Remus Lupin.”

Dobby shies away for a moment, but then his eyes widen with comprehension, and he holds out a hand for Lupin to shake. Lupin smiles toothily, giving the elf a firm handshake.

“Dobby has heard many things about you, Mr. Lupin,” Dobby says awkwardly, pulling his hand away and lingering by Darcy’s knees. “Dobby has heard Professor McGonagall speak of you very highly, sir.” He turns back to Darcy, putting a hand to his mouth as if to keep Lupin from hearing. “Dobby doesn’t think Professor Snape likes Mr. Lupin, Darcy Potter. Dobby has heard him say things—”

Darcy tenses. “What kinds of things?” she asks, quietly enough that everyone seems to sense the sudden tension, the change in the atmosphere. Dobby trembles, looking up into her eyes almost fearfully, a look she’s never received from him before. When he doesn’t answer right away, Darcy leans forward to move closer to him. Lupin exhales loudly through his nose. “What _kinds_ of things, Dobby?”

“What does it matter?” Hermione snaps, pulling Darcy’s attention away from the elf. Her arms are folded across her chest, a pout upon her face. “Can’t you see you’re frightening him?”

“I haven’t even raised my voice,” Darcy answers, but she knows the words that come out are laced with venom, given the way Hermione speaks to her. But she looks back down at Dobby, feeling shame wash over her. “Did I frighten you, Dobby?”

“No . . . no, Darcy Potter,” Dobby says with a weak smile. “Dobby wasn’t supposed to hear, you see . . . Dobby wasn’t eavesdropping, only doing his job . . . and he heard them—Professor Snape and Professor Dumbledore. Dobby didn’t want to listen because Professor Dumbledore has been so kind and offered Dobby a job, but Dobby heard some.”

“What did he say?” Darcy asks quickly, and beside her, Harry straightens up, more interested now that the Headmaster is involved. “Dobby, what did Professor Snape say about Remus?”

Dobby’s eyes fill with tears. He pulls the collar of his jumper up to cover his face, his squeaky sobs muffled against the fabric.

“Leave him alone, Darcy,” Lupin tells her with the gentlest tone he can muster. “Don’t upset him. Just ask him what you wanted from him.”

“If you don’t hurry up,” Ron says, looking down at his fingernails, “I’m going down to dinner alone.”

Though curiosity gnaws at her, Darcy does ask Dobby to have dinner sent up to her rooms for the five of them, and he agrees at once, disappearing before her very eyes with a sniffle and another _CRACK_!

* * *

Wednesday brings snow to Hogwarts—and a lot of it. It coats the grounds before noon, and it causes a lot of grief for Professor Sprout and Hagrid. Darcy is thankful to be in the dungeons, out of the snow, a fire burning happily in the hearth (Snape would _never_ , something Darcy could never understand), knowing that Lupin will be waiting for her when she returns afterwards, and if he’s not, she’ll at least be able to go to sleep with him and wake up beside him the next morning.

Once, as she runs through the corridors between classes, hoping to at least kiss Lupin before her next class, Darcy is caught by Professor McGonagall, storming up the nearest staircase with her lips pursed dangerously, holding up the front of her robes to keep from tripping. “Potter!” she shouts, and Darcy freezes and looks over her shoulder. “Student or teacher, there will be no running in the corridors!”

“Sorry, Professor McGonagall.”

“And it seems to fall to me to play messenger. Remus will be back after dinner.”

Darcy frowns. “Thank you.”

That night is the coldest one yet. Darcy’s boots crunch through the thick layer of frozen snow upon the grounds, dragging Lupin behind her by the hand as they make their way down past the courtyard and to the lake.

“What are we doing out here?” Lupin asks, panting as he missteps and stumbles. “It’d be much nicer sitting in front of a warm fire, you know. Preferably with our clothes off. Or yours, at least.”

“You’re filthy,” Darcy tells him over her shoulder, grinning all the same. “I want to show you something.”

The Black Lake is completely frozen over when they reach it. Darcy stands at the bank, the same place she’d once stood before she’d tried to drown herself. The memory still shames her. She looks up at the sky, attempting to distract herself, observing the stars above and trying to remember everything she’d learned in Astronomy.

“Look,” she says, pointing vaguely at a cluster of stars. “There’s Sirius. The brightest one there.”

Lupin sighs heavily, catching his breath. “Indeed it is,” he agrees. “Makes you feel like he’s watching over us, doesn’t it?”

Darcy smiles up at the star. “As much as the idea comforts me, I don’t know that he’d be happy if he was watching us, especially after what I let you do to me last night.”

“Now who’s the filthy one?”

Lupin makes to wrap his arms around her, but Darcy steps lightly onto the surface of the lake, sliding a few feet away from him, smiling. “Come and get me.” She twirls on one foot, giggling.

He glances down warily at the ice. “Are you sure this is safe?”

“Emily and I used to do it all the time,” she explains, spinning some more until she’s too dizzy to continue. “We took the Invisibility Cloak down here once just to skate.”

Lupin smiles. “Truly your father’s daughter.

Darcy gives a modest shrug. “You’ve never skated on the lake before?” When Lupin shakes his head, chuckling, Darcy holds her hands out, beckoning him forward. “Come on. I’ll make sure you don’t fall in. I promise.”

Lupin takes a careful step onto the ice, putting his weight very slowly onto it. Darcy slides over to him, taking his hands in her own and slowly pulling him farther from the bank.

“See?” she teases. “You’re doing it.”

“Believe it or not,” he says, unsteady on his feet. “I’m not half so graceful as you.”

“Good thing no one is watching, then.” Darcy smiles reassuringly at him. “Just hold my hand and I’ll show you.”

Lupin squeezes, releasing one of her hands and allowing her to pull him slowly around in wide circles and figure-eights. He hadn’t been lying—though long of leg just like Darcy, he’s awkward on his feet, like a colt fresh from its mother’s womb. It makes her smile, seeing him struggle, but relying solidly on her, trusting her to keep him from falling. She holds onto him tight, allowing him to go as slow as he needs, slowly picking up their pace and finding a rhythm that suits them both.

“You just have to practice, is all,” Darcy tells him, letting go of his hand to spin some more, almost falling, but regaining her balance just in time.

“I don’t know that I’ll have much time for practice,” Lupin sighs contently, moving painfully slowly, as if being blown by the wind, looking bowlegged. “And by the looks of it, I’ll likely need as much practice as I can get.”

Darcy skates back over to him, the front of her new, wool cloak pressing against his patched and fraying one. She places her hands upon his shoulders, his own hands finding their place upon her waist. “Is there a lake where you go? Did it snow at all?”

“I’m not so lucky,” he frowns. “No lake, but lots of rain.”

“Are the stars as pretty where you go?”

Lupin tilts his head back to look up at the night sky. Hogwarts, with it being nestled among the tall mountains, has always been the perfect place to see the stars. “No, not by half,” he says again, looking back down at her. “Do you spend much time looking at the stars?”

“Sometimes, through the big windows in my room. It’s hard not to.” She stands on her tiptoes and wraps her arms completely around his neck, burying her face in his skin, wondering if this is all a dream and she’s about to wake up. “Remus?”

“Yes?”

“I wish it could be like this all the time.”

“It will be, one day.”

Darcy kisses his neck, pulling away to be able to look into his eyes again. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I know it’s not easy with me having to . . . always be at Hogwarts, and . . . I know you’d prefer—”

“Don’t say that,” he insists. “I knew what would happen with you when I asked you home over the summer. I knew that you’d return here, likely under protection . . . as you should be.” A small, albeit sad, smile graces his handsome face. “It’s only October and you’ve already caused trouble, haven’t you?”

“I didn’t mean to,” Darcy counter quickly, blushing. “Everyone’s angry with me for what I said to Fudge, but they don’t understand . . . what would you have done in my place, after what he and his government did to Harry and you and me?”

“I’m not angry,” he says, too casually. It makes her feel a thousand times better to know that Lupin is on her side. To know that he trusts her to know what she’s doing, to know what she’s saying, to not be the naive little girl everyone thinks she is . . . and the words that follow bring her even greater comfort, because he seems to know her so well it’s as if he’s read her mind. “I trust you, Darcy. Just as you trust me when I have to leave you. You _do_ trust me, don’t you?”

Of course she does. She trusts him to fully attempt to come back to her, to be safe among the other werewolves, to remember that she loves him. Beyond that, Darcy trusts him with her brother and her friends, she trusts him in the bedroom, trusts him with her life, without any reservations or doubts. There’s no one that she trusts more than him, and Darcy wonders how she’d ever gone more than half her life without him. “Yes,” she answers, feeling the one word falls flat and sounds insincere, but Lupin smiles anyway.

Lupin clears his throat then, suddenly seeming anxious. She’s sure he’s flushing, even in the darkness, unable to see him in proper lighting. “Can I ask you something?”

“Anything.”

“Did you mean what you said the other night?” He clears his throat again, taking a long time to elaborate. “When you said . . . well, you said it would be easier to call you my wife, I . . . were you being serious?”

Color floods Darcy’s face. Her cheeks burn hot even in the freezing cold. She thinks of what she’d told Emily on her birthday last month, about asking Lupin to marry her, and it makes Darcy’s throat go dry. “I was only . . . I was . . . I was teasing you, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—”

“Oh,” Lupin answers quietly. “Right. Sorry, I shouldn’t have assumed—”

Darcy falters. “No, you’re fine, please, you shouldn’t . . . I didn’t mean that I _didn’t_ want to marry you—”

“—I understand if you wouldn’t want to and—”

“—only been together again since the summer . . . er . . . and not just sleeping together—”

“—people like me don’t usually marry, for the obvious reasons, I suppose—”

“—you probably wouldn’t even like me anymore after very long—”

“—you’ve always wanted to marry, but I always imagined someone more . . . someone less . . . like me—”

They talk awkwardly over each other for a few seconds, weak laughter escaping the both of them. Lupin’s hands fall back to his sides again and one jumps up almost immediately to rub the back of his neck as the silence grows incredibly uncomfortable. Darcy wraps her arms around herself.

“I mean, just out of . . . curiosity . . . I, er . . . _would_ you ever . . . want to . . . ?”

“Would I ever want to what?” Darcy asks breathlessly. “Would I ever want to marry you?”

Lupin’s mouth is open, ready to answer, but the words seem to get caught in his throat and he can only nod stiffly.

“I . . . _yes_ , very much so.” And feeling her answer is slightly too eager, she adds quickly, “Eventually, of course.”

“Of course,” he echoes. “Eventually.”

They don’t speak of it again the rest of the night.

Thursday evening brings Darcy and Lupin to the Hog’s Head. After her meeting with Fudge, Darcy feels confident while she’s inside, strong and wise and brave. The tall, old barman even gives her a drink on the house.

“For standing up to that fucking prick, Cornelius Fudge,” he says to her, placing a small glass of firewhisky in front of her at the table. “I still don’t want you ashing your cigarettes on my floor. Use the ashtray like a civilized human being or it’ll be back to the posh pubs for you, Darcy Potter.”

And Friday night is spent at Lupin’s cottage, drinking slowly throughout the evening, making each other laugh. He convinces her to play chess, and Darcy makes it more interesting by suggesting they sweeten the pot.

“And what is this suggestion of yours, my love?” he asks, a smug grin on his face that suggests she’s going to lose this match very badly indeed.

“Every time you collect one of my pieces, I’ll take a piece of clothing off. Same for you.”

“This seems the sort of thing your godfather would have suggested once, back when we were students. Have you played this game before, kitten?”

Darcy raises an eyebrow, smiling innocently. “Once,” she lies. “With a handsome boy who let me win.”

“I’m sorry. I can’t let you win when the prize is so sweet.”

He absolutely destroys her in chess—there’s no other way to put it. First it’s her necklace, and then her socks, her sweater, the thin, white tank-top she’d been wearing, leaving her clad in almost nothing already. Meanwhile, Lupin is missing nothing but his shoes. When he takes her other bishop, Darcy lifts her tank-top over her head, allowing him a moment to look her over. And then she stands to lower her skirt after he takes a pawn, but as her thumbs hook inside the waistband, he gives a very subtle shake of his head, never looking away from her.

Darcy blushes furiously, heart racing, her hands moving slowly upwards to undo the clasp of her bra. Wriggling out of it, the air feels thirty degrees colder, and she fights the instinct to cover her breasts.

“I don’t think I care much for our chess match anymore,” Lupin tells her hoarsely, raising his eyebrows.

“I don’t care much for chess at all. It’s a terribly boring game, isn’t it?”

Lupin chases her into the bedroom without warning, making her shriek with laughter as his arms wind tight around her from behind, falling onto the bed with her beneath him. Darcy manages to roll onto her back, her chest pressed flush to his. He tugs at her skirt as she wriggles beneath him, she being the recipient of a hundred soft and sweet kisses all over her face, his beard tickling her, making her laugh unrestrainedly.

“ _Stop_!” she gasps, feeling her skirt slide down her legs. “Please! I _yield_!”

Lupin lifts his head, his smile making him appear radiant. He gives Darcy enough time to catch her breath before kissing her on the mouth, stealing the breath right back out of her.

“Do you love me, kitten? Truly?”

“You know that I do,” she rasps, kissing the tip of his nose. “I love you. I’m glad you’re home.”

He sighs, but it’s a happy one. “Me too.”


	18. Chapter 18

“. . . all of a sudden, I’m dangling by my ankle from mid-air! Then there was this other flash of light and I fell right back onto my bed.” Ron laughs heartily, clutching his stomach with one hand and wiping a mock tear away with his other. When he notices Darcy’s unamused face, his punches her in the arm, looking disappointed with her lack of a reaction. “What are you so sour for? It was just a laugh. You’re not going to give us detention, are you?”

“Where did you learn the spell from, Harry?” Darcy asks, narrowing her eyes at her brother, wrapping her scarf tighter around her neck.

Ron and Hermione look quickly at Harry. Darcy doesn’t think much of it, but narrows her eyes further when it takes Harry far longer to answer than expected. “It was written in the margins of some library book I was using for homework,” he replies, suddenly defensive. “Like Ron said, it was a laugh, that’s all.”

“You’re no fun anymore, Darcy,” Ron sighs. His tone is good-natured, but his words still earn him a deadly glare. “It’s like with Snape gone from Potions, his spirit has still lingered . . . in the form of you.”

“Ron!” Hermione hisses. “That’s not very nice at all!” She smiles sweetly at Darcy, looking past Harry and Ron to see her. “I think you’re fun.” Her smile flickers. “When you’re not drowning yourself in alcohol . . . or sulking . . .”

“No one said you had to hang out with me, you know,” Darcy snaps, tightening her grip on Lupin’s gloved hand. “If you don’t think I’m fun, then fuck off.”

“Face it,” Ron tells her, stifling a smile that only infuriates her further. “You’re high strung this year.”

“You think?” Darcy snarls, ignoring Lupin’s whispered protest, that almost instantly dies out at the knowledge that it’s useless. “How would you feel if someone close to you recently died, and working two jobs? You probably don’t even read anything I write in the _Prophet_ , anyway, Ron.”

“You’re half right,” he answers, grinning slyly at Harry. “Hermione reads it to us.”

“I still don’t understand why you’re writing for the _Prophet_ anyway,” Harry frowns, seemingly affected by Darcy’s unwarranted rage. “Especially knowing it’s all going through the Ministry.”

Darcy tries to keep her voice level. Lupin’s hand slips from hers, his arm wrapping around her waist protectively. She knows it’s a silent plea to stand down, but she ignores it. “It’s a stepping stone, leading me to bigger and better things.”

“You’re exploiting yourself,” he retorts coldly.

“Why not?” Darcy asks him, returning his venomous tone by tenfold. “It’s the only way my reputation is going to get better, which can only help my cause.”

“Darcy, no offense, but . . .” Hermione looks uncertainly from Darcy to Harry and back again. “What exactly is your cause? Are you still rallying for the werewolves?”

Darcy blushes, looking away from her. She’s glad the cold and snowy wind has already made her cheeks pink, the better to hide her embarrassment. “No . . . not at the moment.” She looks sideways at Lupin, who smiles weakly at her. “I’m doing it for my own reasons, thank you. I’m not obligated to share them with any of you.” Plus, Darcy feels it’s far too shameful to admit that one of the reasons she’s doing it is to prove to the world that she’s someone, and not just some stupid girl living her brother’s shadow at Hogwarts.

She can’t see anyway this trip to Hogsmeade will possibly be fun at all. Darcy would have been much happier to have stayed in bed with Lupin for a few more hours, but she’d promised Hermione that they’d all go to Hogsmeade, and Lupin had told her that she shouldn’t go back on her promise just because of him. So they’d Apparated back to Hogsmeade, walked up to the castle so Darcy could slip into as many clothes as she could, and then joined Harry and his friends as they left the castle for the village. Darcy’s thighs are already screaming, but the walk down isn’t half as bad as the walk up had been.

The weather is terrible. The flurry of snow and gray sky makes for poor visibility as they walk down the winding drive towards Hogsmeade, already irritable after Filch has prodded them all far too much with his Secrecy Sensor, claiming it was all for the students’ benefit. The wind howls around them, making it snow sideways, burning the exposed skin on their faces, making their eyes water and their lips dry. Even with several layers on, the cold bites deep into Darcy’s bones, causing her to shiver uncontrollably at time when a particularly strong gust of wind comes along. The days old snow on the ground crunches beneath Darcy’s wet boots, soaking through her first layer of socks and dampening the second.

And then to hear that Harry had tried some unknown spell on his best friend . . . a spell that had not harmed him, not really, but a spell that could have been disastrous nonetheless. And they thought it was a _laugh_! A thought occurs to her suddenly, and she’s sure Harry won’t like talking about it again, but Darcy’s injured pride forces her to speak.

“You know what that spell was, Harry,” Darcy tells him as quietly as she can, while still talking over the wind. Lupin must pick up on her meaning right away, for his arm slowly retracts from around her, falling back to dangle at his side. “It was the same spell dad used.”

Harry flushes angrily. There’s no hiding it behind his cold cheeks. Hermione and Ron exchange puzzled looks, and Darcy can’t help but to love Harry all the more for clearly not having told them what he’d seen in the Pensieve. “It was different,” he counters. “We told you. We were just having a laugh.”

“And I’m sure that’s what dad thought, too.”

There’s a heavy silence that falls over them, and Darcy can see that it makes Ron and Hermione uncomfortable. Harry refuses to meet her eyes, but she can see the slight shame in his face as he mulls this over. Even Lupin, who hadn’t said much on the way down, looks off awkwardly towards the village—or the approximate area of the village, for it’s impossible to see through the snow.

Part of her feels some smug sense of pride after what she’s said. After all, not only is it dangerous to use unknown spell on anyone, Darcy can’t help but to think Harry hadn’t given much thought to what the spell had turned out to be. If she had used that spell, the effect would have startled her immediately. She still hasn’t forgotten—nor will she ever—about what she’d seen in the Pensieve, how her father had dangled Snape upside down for all the world to see him in the most humiliating position Darcy can think of. She hasn’t forgotten how Sirius cheered her father on, how Peter Pettigrew had laughed and laughed and laughed, how Lupin had done nothing to interfere, how he’d ignored it as if that would make it go away.

And Darcy has seen the spell used in a much darker situation, as well, as Hermione was quick to point out when Ron had hardly gotten more than three words of the story out of him. The Death Eaters had used it on the Muggle caretakers at the Quidditch World Cup, showing their limp and unconscious bodies off to everyone watching, like some sort of prize. Darcy knows Harry never meant Ron any ill will, but something about her little brother using the same spell the Death Eaters has used in such a violent way . . . her right arm begins to tingle beneath her layers, and she picks up her pace, striding across the grounds and leaving the rest of her friends behind as the village grows closer, the outlines of the thatched buildings becoming visible.

The quick crunching of snow behind her alerts her to Lupin’s approach. He lifts his feet high when he walks, the hard layer of snow making it awkward to walk as he usually would. Draping an arm around her shoulders and pulling her to his side, Lupin sighs. “Stop worrying so much, my love,” he tells her, warm breath steaming in the freezing air. “They’re only children, no matter how old Harry thinks he is.”

Darcy looks up at him, remembering with a start that he knows nothing of the contents of the prophecy, nothing of what the future holds in store for Harry and—effectively—for Darcy, as well. “He should know better,” she says, but her heart isn’t really in it. Perhaps she was too hard on him. “They’re right. I’m high strung. These past few months haven’t been easy for me.”

“Would you rather go back home?” He hunches over to kiss her temple, his lips causing what exposed skin of hers they touch to burn hot.

Darcy can’t help but to smile weakly at the knowledge he still has such an effect on her after all these years. Glancing up at him, Darcy takes in his appearance as they move a little slower beside each other. Snowflakes fall onto his long eyelashes, melting almost immediately. He’s decided to forego a hat, and his sandy brown hair is windswept and disheveled, lifted by the wind and sticking up in places, much like Harry’s might. Though it’s only been three years since she’d met him again, he looks much older than he had—not that she minds. In fact, she finds it hard to determine which of them has seemingly aged more.

Of course Lupin’s face is a little more lined, a little more scarred, his hair streaked with a little more gray. But Darcy is used to these things, and his eyes are still playful and warm, his demeanor still friendly and loving. Superficial aging, she thinks. Superficial aging that makes him look weary, things that she’s never really minded. He’s still the same person that she’d met on the train in truth, the man who had made her fall in love so quickly like some stupid schoolgirl. Maybe that’s all she was . . . a stupid schoolgirl. But it was real, it was all real, and those memories still comfort her during nights when Lupin is gone.

But her aging has been a different and slightly terrifying thing. Instead of lines or scars or even gray (though she’s been finding more and more of those lately), the years have given Darcy’s face a hardened look to it. Years ago, when she’d stood before a mirror, sometimes all she saw was a wide-eyed little girl, innocent and afraid and naive. Darcy is none of those things anymore—well, she isn’t innocent or naive anymore, anyway—and she looks like she’s lived a thousand lives already. Her hard features do nothing to enhance this—her jutting cheekbones and sharp jawline, long and straight nose, her eyebrows that seem  
to rest naturally in a place that makes it appear she’s always on the verge of scowling. She wonders if Lupin sees it when he looks at her, the change that she’s undergone.

Lupin narrows his eyes at her, the corners of his lips turned upwards. “What?” he asks.

Darcy looks at him for a moment, tugs at her scarf to fully reveal her mouth to him, and presses her lips to his hard and without warning. He kisses her back eagerly, and for about six or seven seconds, Darcy forgets about the cold and Hogsmeade and Hogwarts as she wraps one arm around his neck, threading her fingers through his hair, and—

“Oi!”

Blushing furiously, Darcy pulls away just as Lupin turns his head, uncomfortable and embarrassed. Harry storms up to them, giving Darcy a dangerous look as Hermione attempts to talk him down.

“Can we just go without you having a snog?” Harry snaps, leaving both Darcy and Lupin flushing as they trail after Harry, Ron, and Hermione.

Hogsmeade is nearly deserted when they finally reach the High Street, and no one seems to be in good spirits. The wind has only gotten worse, and Darcy’s thirst increases with each step towards the Three Broomsticks, where she’s sure everyone is crowded, avoiding the weather. There are two people outside near the Three Broomsticks, however—one of them is easily recognizable as the barman from the Hog’s Head. As the five of them linger outside the entrance to the pub, she holds her hand up in greeting to the old man, who sees her and quickly pulls his cloak tighter around himself and leaves the other man—a short and squat man—alone.

“Is that Mundungus?” Lupin asks curiously, and Darcy takes a few steps closer, Harry at her side.

Harry scoffs in disbelief. “Hey! Mundungus!”

Mundungus jumps, his back still turned to them as a briefcase crashes to the ground and all kinds of things spill out of it into the snow. He turns to see them all watching as he scrabbles to collect silver goblets and cutlery and even a rusty looking necklace. Ron kneels to help him, looking everything over as the rest of them approach.

“Harry,” Mundungus says quickly by way of greeting. He looks Darcy in the eyes for a split second before looking away again, his matted ginger hair hiding his face from view. “Darcy . . . looking very beautiful today.”

“You only say that when you want something,” Darcy replies, watching Ron turn over a goblet in his freckled hands. “Who’d you nick this stuff from anyway? It’s quite nice.”

“That’s none of your concern,” Mundungus answers.

Darcy raises her eyebrows, scowling at him.

“Are you selling it?” Harry asks, peering over Darcy’s shoulder.

“Hey, Darce,” Ron says slowly, looking up over his shoulder at her and showing her the imprinted crest on the front of the silver goblet. “Isn’t this . . . ?”

“Give it here!” Mundungus shouts, but it’s too late—Darcy has already recognized the Black family crest, and Harry has already pinned Mundungus to the wall by the throat. Darcy gets to her feet with Ron, frowning, her head pounding, her arm tingling, staring down Mundungus.

Hermione shrieks, and Darcy swoops forward, seeing red. Feeling very much that she and Harry’s argument is forgotten and that they’re allies once again, she touches his shoulder, wanting to handle Mundungus on her own, like the filthy criminal he is. “Harry, don’t,” she says calmly, a testament to her rage.

Harry turns his head slightly, bewildered and seemingly just as angry as she is. “You just want to let him go? He stole Sirius’ things.”

“You’ll get yourself into trouble. Let me handle it.”

Harry hesitates, but nods very slowly. Mundungus gasps for air, looking relieved, as Harry releases his grip around Dung’s throat, but it isn’t for long. Darcy licks wildly at Mundungus’ hand and his wand falls to the ground, disappearing amidst the snow as her skin slapping his echoes. Within the matter of a second, Darcy’s forearm is pressed hard against Mundungus’ windpipe, but not hard enough. Darcy would crush his windpipe if she could.

“You little _cretin_ ,” she hisses in his face, retrieving her wand with her free hand.

“What did you do, Dung?” Harry snarls from over her shoulder, clearly glad Darcy has taken such measures to prevent him leaving. “Go back and strip the place the night he died?”

“No—I—” Mundungus squirms, his chest heaving as he tries to control his breathing, his grubby fingers wrapping around Darcy’s forearm, but she taps the tip of her wand to his fingers and he cries out, pulling away.

“Darcy . . .” Hermione begs, sounding about ready to cry from behind her.

“Answer my brother, Mundungus,” Darcy insists, so close to his face that their noses are nearly touching. “That’s _our_ house now.”

“ _Oi_ —!” Mundungus struggles beneath Darcy’s arm, his face turning bright red as he looks helplessly around, reaching for a wand that he won’t be able to get. “Remus! Please! Call off your bleedin’ she-wolf!”

“Sorry, mate,” Lupin replies, and there’s a coldness to his tone that makes Darcy’s heart flutter. She knows that he will not stop her, or try to in any way. “That’s my woman’s stuff you’ve been stealing.”

“Now, I—I—I didn’t know it was yours—”

“You’re a terrible liar, Dung,” Darcy retorts, not wanting to hear his stupid voice, or smell his smoky breath. “You knew _exactly_ whose things those were—”

Mundungus’ voice goes hoarse, his face turning purple and his eyes beginning to bulge out of their sockets. “Sirius hated ‘em—he didn’t want ‘em anyway—”

“But _I_ do, and if you didn’t know that, you wouldn’t have been sneaking around me like the thief you are,” Darcy tells him, prodding his fleshy cheek. “You think Professor Snape will be happy when I tell him you’ve been stealing my things?”

Mundungus blanches, the only color the dark blue and purple of the bags under his droopy eyes. “Darcy, please— _please_ —”

“Or would you rather I go to Professor Dumbledore?”

Sweat covers Mundungus’ forehead. He stammers helplessly, stupidly, reduced to nothing more than a little baby. In the moment, he reminds her of Peter Pettigrew the night she’d seen him in the Shrieking Shack, when he’d cried and begged for mercy.

“Or I could just deal with you myself,” she promises him, pressing down harder onto his throat. Mundungus’ mouth opens in a silent scream, bloodshot eyes wide and fearful. “Try stealing from me with no fingers, you fucking prick—”

“Darcy!” Hermione moans again.

Her friends begin to protest in earnest. Harry keeps quiet, but she can feel his gaze on the side of her face, lingering and cautious. Hermione pleads with her with a quavering voice, and Lupin calls out her name gently. There’s another female voice attempting to talk her down, but as Mundungus’ face grows more purple, his fingers grasping again at her arm weakly, everything seems to cut out. For a moment, the only sound in the word is the pounding of her pulse, someone knocking on her temples.

And someone’s hand comes to rest on her shoulder. “Darcy,” comes Ron’s quiet voice, breaking through the nothingness that’s settled around her in her anger. “C’mon, mate, let him go.”

Darcy’s arm loosens against his throat and Mundungus sucks in a deep and noisy breath of air. She takes a step backwards, lowering her arm and tucking her wand back into her pocket. Ron releases her, and Darcy takes a moment to return to her senses.

“You’re crazy,” Mundungus pants, hands on his knees, making him seem only a fat child. Darcy looks down at him, eyes following his every move as he slowly stands up to his full height. “You’re _fucking_ crazy!”

Unsure why these words affect her so, Darcy’s body moves of its own accord. Before she or anyone else can stop her, her knuckles collide with Mundungus’ face. There’s a sickening crunch as his nose breaks and blood gushes down his front. He yelps, dropping to his knees and howling as someone grabs Darcy and pulls her away from him. Before she can retrieve her stolen things, Mundungus has grabbed his wand, closed the briefcase, and Disapparates right there, cursing and damning her and her kin.

Despite the snow, Darcy suddenly feels very warm, sweating slightly underneath all of her clothes, her back pressed against someone’s chest.

“Darcy, I take back what I said about you not being fun anymore,” Ron says with a snicker, his lanky arm wrapped around her neck in a loose headlock. “That was pretty cool of you.”

“It’s not funny, Ron!” Hermione argues. Darcy can feel her little hands wrapped right around her left bicep. “She could have seriously hurt him! Or killed him!”

“You all right, love?” Lupin’s face is suddenly in front of hers, concern etched deep. He opens his mouth to speak again, but someone interrupts, the last person Darcy wants to see or hear besides Mundungus.

“What’s going on?”

Darcy tenses, looking away from Lupin as Tonks comes into view, bewildered, and still thoroughly fucking miserable looking. Her hair is brown and lank, but she looks from one person to another as if expecting an answer before her eyes fall on Darcy, and Darcy returns her gaze.

“Darcy, your nose is bleeding,” Tonks says flatly, without the slightest hint of concern—or maybe the concern is there, and Darcy just doesn’t want to hear it. “Are you all right? Was that Mundungus here?”

“Yeah, Darcy broke his nose,” Ron grins, and Harry punches his arm lightly, approaching Darcy’s side.

Lupin glances quickly at Tonks, looking away rather quickly. He touches Darcy’s face with one hand, swiping her upper lip with the pad of his thumb and she blushes upon realizing it comes away with blood. She hadn’t felt his other hand slide into her jacket pocket, but she feels him pull it out. “She’ll be all right,” he says with a small smile, placing a cigarette in between her lips and lighting it for her.

Tonks lingers, clearing her throat and wrapping her arms around herself. “You should all get out of the cold.”

Darcy lets everyone fuss over her for a few minutes as she smokes her cigarette, thankful that Tonks doesn’t stay much longer. She takes her glove off and wipes her nose with the back of her hand to see that the bleeding isn’t terribly bad, but the knuckles on her right hand have already begun to bruise, and upon seeing how badly bruised they are, the pain begins. Her entire hand gives a dull throb, making her wince.

“Shall we get a drink?” Lupin asks, and the five of them break off. Lupin tries to inconspicuously urge Harry and his friends to go, and they mutter something about going to the Three Broomsticks, leaving the two of them behind. When Darcy doesn’t answer right away, Lupin sighs and looks around, placing his hand between her shoulder blades to lead her down the High Street. “I’ve an idea.”

“I’m not going into the Hog’s Head,” Darcy replies, holding her black glove to her nose. The bleeding has slowed considerably almost to a stop already. But her anger at the barman for dealing with Mundungus and her stolen things has not abated quite yet.

“We’re not going to the Hog’s Head.”

Darcy feels she should have known where he was going to take her before they arrive. The Shrieking Shack looms tall about them, standing out against the gray and snowy landscape like a sore thumb. It seems half the shingles are gone, likely already loose and having been blown off by the recent winds. It looks almost ready to collapse, and Darcy recalls the last time she’d been inside, alone and on a cold day just like this one.

Lupin glances about, but he needn’t have. There’s no one out in the streets to watch them, anyway. He places a hand on the gate that opens to the steep pathway up to the house, hesitating, looking up at it with a solemn expression on his face. Darcy wraps her hands around his bicep, resting her cheek against his shoulder.

“What happened back there?” he asks, so suddenly it almost gives her whiplash.

“I—” Darcy pauses. “I don’t know.” It’s the truth. She didn’t really care that it was her things. She cared about that fact that it was Sirius’. “I’m not dealing with it well.”

“Speaking from experience, drinking never really helps.”

Darcy smiles weakly up at him. She knows he means nothing by it, judging by the smile he gives her in return. “I try not to think of him.” The wind picks up for a moment and Darcy buries her face into his arm to shield herself. After a minute, she forces herself to look at the Shrieking Shack again. “It’s what I did with my parents, and I nearly forgot everything I knew about them. I almost forgot their faces until I saw them in the Mirror of Erised.”

Lupin is quiet for a long time, but she doesn’t mind the silence. Hogsmeade feels like a ghost town, and it’s almost as if they’re the only two people in the world. “Something else is bothering you,” he notes, cocking an eyebrow at her, a smug smirk plastered to his face that tells her he’s awfully proud to know her as well as he does. “Tell me.”

She inhales deeply, blushing despite how hard she wills her body not to. Glancing quickly up at him, Darcy pulls her eyes to the Shrieking Shack. “It’s Tonks’ Patronus. She sent for me when Harry didn’t make it off the Hogwarts Express in time. Do you know what it is?”

There’s a silence that seems to last an eternity, and it almost makes Darcy cry. “I do.” Lupin’s tone is forced, curt.

Darcy feels as if his words have slapped her across the face. Her heart grows cold, and she lets go of his arm suddenly.

“Darcy, if you think I assume you love me less because your Patronus hasn’t taken on the form of a werewolf, then you’re sadly mistaken.” He elbows her playfully, smiling. “Besides, my Patronus isn’t even a werewolf.”

“What is it?” she asks, wondering how this piece of information has never been shared between them. “Your Patronus?”

“It’s just a regular wolf.” He shrugs modestly. “Are you disappointed?” When Darcy doesn’t answer, he sighs adoringly. “You’re jealous.”

“I’m _not_ jealous.” It’s a terrible, fat lie. Darcy can’t believe she even had the audacity to voice it, knowing Lupin will never believe it. For a moment, she almost tells him what words had been exchanged between them at the Three Broomsticks the night of Darcy’s meeting with Cuffe, but she abstains at the last moment. “Just forget it, would you?”

He places a kiss to her temple, her burning face. The humiliation is too much. “I love you,” Lupin tells her, and her anger melts away as suddenly as it had come. “I’m sorry I haven’t been able to be here for you. I promised you we’d move past everything together, and I’ve failed to deliver on that.”

_Empty promises_.

“We have the rest of our lives to move past it together,” she tells him, wondering if Lupin recognizes it as an empty promise. “Do you ever wish they’d just tear it down?” Darcy asks, eyeing the shack in the distance.

“Sometimes,” Lupin confesses, fingering the iron gate distractedly. “Would you like to go inside?”

“Would you?”

“No,” he says, laughing softly. “But I’m in half a mind to go in anyway.” He turns towards her, drinking in her appearance. It strikes her as rather curious that he doesn’t seem wary or cautious of her after what he’s just seen her do and say to Mundungus. In fact, his eyes are warm and inviting, never afraid or fearful, a gaze to always make her feel at home. “I still think of that night . . . when we were all inside. Twelve years I’d been angry at the wrong person, and twelve years I’d grieved someone who didn’t deserve it.”

“Did you ever believe that Sirius might have been innocent?”

“I wanted to believe it, but the evidence was overwhelming.” He sighs heavily. “Sirius spent the better part of his life hating the Dark Arts, rejecting and despising the values his family adhered to. I look back now and wonder how I could have ever believed Sirius capable of such a thing. He and James were brothers in every way but blood. Lily, a sister to him in later years. I thought him a murderer and a traitor for twelve years, and he never even held it against me.”

Her face is so numb with cold that Darcy doesn’t realize she’s crying until a tear drips onto her lips. She quickly wipes her tears away. “He loved you,” she says.

Lupin smiles weakly. “And you,” he answers. “He loved you most of all.” Taking her hand in his again, he pushes the gate open. “Come on.”

Darcy follows reluctantly, unsure of what the inside will bring. With Sirius’ death still fresh in her mind, seeing the room where they’d been reunited may be overwhelming. But she has to do it for Lupin, so she makes herself match him step for step, clinging to his hand.

Darcy is able to wiggle in through a broken window, unblocking the front door for Lupin to enter through. The gray light seeps into the house through broken and half-boarded up windows, giving the sense of night, as if the light of a full moon is peeking in. The inside is untouched since she’s last seen it. A thick layer of dust covers everything—the broken furniture, the uneven floorboards, the mantel above the fireplace. There are no recent imprints on the stairs, her own footprints covered long ago. The trapdoor that leads to the Whomping Willow looks to have not been disturbed in some time. Deep gouges are set in the walls, scars of its own. Darcy’s shoulder gives a throb, as if remembering.

“It’s cold,” she says, if only to break the silence. Even with the wind gone, and even with her jacket, gloves, scarf, and hat, and the thick cloak wrapped about her shoulders, there’s a chill that seems to be bone deep—or deeper, if possible. The air is unsettling. Darcy hadn’t been afraid of the place last time, and she’d even been alone then, but now there’s a different atmosphere to the place. “I don’t like it here. Let’s leave.”

Lupin is already halfway up the creaking staircase. “What are you talking about?”

“Remus, please . . .” Darcy wraps her arms around herself, stepping closer to the stairs in spite of herself. “Let’s go.”

He hesitates at the top of the staircase, turning to face her. “What are you so afraid of?”

“I don’t know,” she pleads, becoming desperate.

Is it the prospect of seeing the broken wall that frightens her? She remembers. Compared to the pain of her shoulder and the adrenaline that coursed through her, Darcy hadn’t felt the pain in her back.

No, she thinks. It’s bigger than that. It’s seeing the room she’d reunited with Sirius. Seeing the place where he’d stood when Darcy realized the truth. Seeing the place she had been held by family for the first time since she was a child. And now all of it—gone. Two short years was all they were gifted, and it wasn’t enough—wasn’t nearly enough. There were summer nights she’d spent crying herself to sleep at night, wondering why anyone should love at all if all it brings is hurt.

Darcy’s legs begin their ascent up the staircase, briefly reminded of the night Darcy had journeyed into the Pensieve with Snape. Her entire consciousness had been screaming its protest when her body had forced her face into the memory.

“Darcy . . .” Lupin says warily. “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know.”

“Nothing can hurt you here.” He steps down to meet her halfway on the staircase, removing his glove to offer her his bare hand.

Darcy looks at his hand for a moment, taking her glove off before taking his hand to feel his skin against hers. His fingers tighten around her hand, gently pulling her towards him, until she’s standing on the landing of the second floor, her head swimming with memories she’d rather forget. She stands tall at his side, not allowing the fear to cause her to shrink back. With Lupin at her side, she feels brave, and when they step inside the room where it had all happened—the room where she’d first seen Lupin transformed, the room she’d met Sirius again, the room she’d seen Peter Pettigrew. The memory of that night is painful, but she feels that she must say something, to keep the memory from brewing, only creating more anger in the process.

Thankfully, she doesn’t have to say anything, for Lupin speaks first. He walks slowly about the room as he does so, fingering the bedposts of the bed, collapsed in on itself, touching the scratches he’d made in the walls, scuffing his shoe over the scratches in the floorboards.

“I think of that night still. I dream of it.” Lupin’s jaw clenches, a muscle jumping in it as he looks out of the boarded window, through a small crack between the wooden planks. “I blame myself. How could it not be my fault? Had I not been so foolish and forgotten about the full moon, about my potion. But that night shouldn’t have happened.” He hesitates again, and it looks almost painful for him to continue. “I had the map . . . I could have seen that Peter’s name was on it, hiding in Hagrid’s hut had I just . . . _looked_. Instead, I used it to feed my own desires, to confront my own petty insecurities.”

Darcy watches him closely, unable to speak. The entire scene feels very intimate, as if she’s watching something she has no right to watch.

“Instead of using it for _noble_ purposes, I used it to watch you. To see if you were with Oliver, and if you were, where the two of you were and how long you were together . . . I’d hoped for a chance to see you wandering the corridors on your own, hoping that you’d turn towards my office, or that you’d come close enough that I could steal a word with you, make up some excuse to talk to you.”

Darcy’s heart stutters. The thought of him poring over the Marauders’ Map in his study, agonizing over her dot and Oliver’s . . .

“Not the most . . . honorable use of my time and resources at Hogwarts,” he says, giving a soft laugh at he looks at her. Her emotions must be painted clearly on her face, for Lupin seems to read her reaction with ease. “I was too humiliated to admit this to you, of course, especially after I had already denied watching you on the map. But . . . I couldn’t tell you. It took me a long time to build up the courage to tell you how I felt for you . . . how I’d felt for you ever since the morning you had begged me to stay at Hogwarts.”

Her breath hitches, and she wants to run across the room to him, to hold him, to pepper him with kisses, but she’s frozen to the spot. “Why didn’t you tell me?” she rasps.

“Because I was afraid,” Lupin confesses, lifting his eyes from the floor to meet hers. “Besides, how could I tell my student I loved her without sounding like a fool? But mostly, I suppose, because you were you and I was . . . me.” His hand jumps to the back of his neck, rubbing it sheepishly. “And then, after everything that had happened, waking up that morning and realizing that I had ruined everything . . . to come back to the castle to see you had been waiting for me . . .” He shrugs. “Now you know my deep, dark secret. I loved you for a long time.”

Darcy falters, feeling the tears prickle in her eyes. Suddenly, she isn’t afraid anymore—only sad. “Remus,” she whispers, “please don’t leave again.”

He doesn’t answer, only gives her a small, sad little smile, crossing the room in three strides and taking her hand again, twining their fingers together. Still, without speaking, he leads her down the stairs again, looking around at the large room. Lupin releases her hand, walking around aimlessly before standing before the fireplace, his back to Darcy.

“I came here, the night after I attacked you,” he says. “And I sat here for a long time, wondering how I could ever face you again, wondering how I could ever look into your beautiful face again and not be the recipient of your disgust, of your rage.”

Darcy slides her wand out of her pocket, pointing it at the fireplace and shivering. The sudden eruption of flames makes him jump, but she’s already there at his side before he can turn around to look at her. The warmth is a blessing, and it’s sweet to see Lupin in such flattering lighting.

She rests her chin upon his shoulder, placing a barely there kiss to his cheek. “I will never be disgusted by you,” she promises. “My rage, however . . . that’s entirely up to you. Should we leave?”

He smiles again, the smile of someone exhausted, who hasn’t slept in three days. “But you’ve just lit such a beautiful fire.”

“Do you really want to linger? Here, of all places?”

Lupin chuckles, looking back into the fire, putting it out with a twist of his own wand. “Not particularly. Now that I’ve come in, I rather wished they’d have torn it down.”

“I’ll make sure it gets done before you come back to me again,” Darcy grins, kissing his cheek again, wrapping her fingers around his arm and tugging him towards the exit. “It will be top priority on my to-do list.”

“I can’t deny the idea of you wielding so much power is incredibly attractive.”

“I’m sure I don’t actually wield as much power as you or I want to believe,” Darcy teases, throwing open the front door to forcibly remind them of the biting cold outside and the howling wind that feels like knives cutting at her skin. “Though, I’m sure a few words with the Headmaster will be sufficient to convince him. Should I ask about the Willow, as well?”

“No,” he laughs, his mood changing abruptly, as soon as he crosses the threshold back outside. “Leave them. Perhaps they’ll serve some other unfortunate child some use . . .”

Darcy nearly skips down the drive, able to gracefully vault over the waist-high fence. Lupin just pushes open the gate and makes his own slow way through.

“Let’s go back to the castle. A fire sounds nice,” she sighs, grabbing hold of his wrist and throwing his arm around her shoulders. Darcy slips her arm underneath his cloak, wrapping it around his waist. “I’ll even let you have your way with me if you’d like, Professor Lupin.”

“Easy now,” he replies playfully, his arm tightening around her shoulders to put her in a loose headlock, pulling her to his chest and making her laugh as he rains down kisses atop her head.

“Darcy! Remus!”

Lupin slowly lets go of her, straightening up, and Darcy squints through the sheet of sleet that obscures her vision. She doesn’t need to see him to know Harry’s voice, and at the sound of the desperation that’s lifted towards her by the wind, she begins to panic. He nearly barrels into her, panting, grabbing her hand and pulling hard back down the High Street.

“Harry—” Darcy gasps, tugged along again, struggling feebly to try and understand what’s going on. “Harry, what’s happened?”

“It’s Katie Bell,” he answers quickly, his voice raised to nearly a shout. “I think she’s been cursed!”

Darcy blinks. It takes a moment for the absurdity of this statement to fade, and then she realizes the true nature of this statement. She and Lupin exchange glances, and within seconds, all three of them are racing down the High Street, the sleet blinding them.

The scene is disturbing. Hermione, Ron, and a seventh year girl, Leanne, are all crowded around Katie Bell, flat on her back, twitching and jerking with her blank eyes staring up at the gray sky as a long, piercing shriek issues from her open mouth. A massive, hulking figure emerges at the same time from the other side of the High Street—Hagrid, seemingly not having noticed the severity of the situation in front of him.

Darcy pulls Harry, Hermione, and Ron out of the way as Lupin hurries over to Katie’s side.

“Oh, Professor Lupin, I—I didn’t—” Leanne sobs, but her cries are barely audible over the wind and Katie’s screams. “I don’t know what—”

“How long has she been like this?” Lupin asks, and Leanne stammers for a moment.

“I—I don’t know—a few minutes—”

“Get back,” Hagrid calls to Leanne, lumbering over to help Lupin.

Darcy urges Leanne away from Katie, pushing her gently into Hermione’s comforting embrace. Turning her back on Katie, Lupin, and Hagrid, Darcy quickly glances over a shaken Ron and a pensive Harry, settling her gaze once more on Hermione and Leanne, waiting for her sobs to calm. She glances over her shoulder upon hearing Katie’s screams growing quieter, and watches as Hagrid carries her away. Lupin crouches down and picks something up out of the snow, examining it closely, but Darcy can’t quite make it out from here.

“What happened?” Darcy asks Leanne, trying to be gentle, but she knows her tone is all wrong. Thankfully, Leanne doesn’t react to Darcy’s intensity. “Leanne, what happened to Katie? Start from the beginning.”

Leanne gives Darcy a quick and appraising look before speaking. “Katie and I were in the Three Broomsticks, and she went to the bathroom and came out with some package that was meant for someone at Hogwarts.” She sniffles, taking a moment to wipe her cheeks. And then the sobs come again. “I think she was Imperiused and I—I didn’t realize!”

Darcy inhales deeply, placing a reassuring hand on Leanne’s shoulder. “It’s all right, Leanne, keep going.”

“We were arguing about it—I told her not to!—and—and—”

“Did she tell you who gave the package to her?” Hermione presses, but Leanne shakes her head apologetically.

“No, she wouldn’t!” she cries. “She wouldn’t listen, so I tried to grab it, and the package—it tore and—and she—”

“What’s the package?” Darcy looks to Harry, seeing clearly that Leanne will not be able to answer anymore questions. “What was the gift?”

“A necklace,” comes Lupin’s voice. He slinks up beside her, the thing he’d rescued from the snow lying in his palms. Taking care to hold it with a cloth, Lupin presents them a beautiful opal necklace that looks possibly centuries of years old, passed down generation to generation. “A cursed necklace. What happened when she touched it?”

Ron answers him first. “She just shot up in the air, her arms out like this—” He holds his arms out like a bird in flight—“and she was screaming . . . screaming like you wouldn’t believe.”

“We were trying to get her down when she fell onto us,” Hermione finishes in a quavery voice. “And then she was just like you saw her.”

Darcy turns to Lupin. “We should check the Three Broomsticks. The person who gave this to her might still be there.”

“We don’t know who it is. If we go in there accusing people, it’ll just cause trouble. Likely they left after giving Katie the necklace, whoever it was.” Lupin grits his teeth, thinking hard.

In the end, without anything solid to go off of, Darcy tasks Harry and his friends with seeing Leanne safely back to the castle when she’s ready, while she and Lupin transport the necklace to the castle right away. The walk back is hurried and tiring, and Darcy tells him near fifty times in the first three minutes to be careful, and he always just hums or smiles in return. On the way, she tells Lupin what Leanne had told her before he’d joined their conversation.

“Katie meant to get the necklace into Hogwarts?” Lupin asks, seeming genuinely surprised. His confident skepticism is curious. “That necklace would never have made it through the front gate. Filch would have confiscated it at once. All the extra security measures in place would have prevented it.”

“So the actual sender is likely very stupid, is that it?”

“They could be. Without knowing who the necklace was intended for, it’s hard to make any assumptions.” Lupin looks down at the necklace again, pursing his lips.

“It was given to Katie in the girls’ bathroom, so the sender must be a girl, mustn’t they?”

“It’s possible.”

“There are plenty of high priority targets here,” Darcy admits, the thought not very comforting. “Dumbledore, Slughorn . . . Harry.”

Lupin gives her a sideways glance, his voice taking on a very grave tone. “Have you considered the necklace might have been for you?”

As much as the idea frightens her, Darcy thinks herself an unlikely target. She can’t think of any women who might have such a grudge against her. She knows that Pansy Parkinson is less than fond of her, her dislike of Darcy running deeper than any other girl in Hogwarts, but she finds it hard to believe Pansy would attempt to curse her, especially knowing it probably wouldn’t work. How would the necklace have made it through the gates of Hogwarts, let alone the front doors?

But there are others, she tells herself. Theodore Nott seems the perfect candidate, especially after what he’d done to her in Potions. Is it possible that Draco Malfoy would have to gall to do something so bold? But perhaps it unwise to start naming names not knowing if the necklace was actually meant to curse her.

She steals another glance at the necklace, the snowflakes and sleet melting immediately upon touching it. Lupin pays far more attention to Darcy than the necklace.

“Darcy, please don’t give me any reason to worry more than I already do when I’m gone.”

Darcy’s head turns with painful, breakneck speed. “ _You_ . . . worry about _me_?” she scoffs. “At least you know that I’m at Hogwarts. You won’t even tell me where you’ve been, nor will you tell me where you go during the day when I’m in classes.”

“If I told you, I’d have to kill you.” He smiles innocently, toothily. The smile quickly fades, however, when the conversation turns serious again. “Darcy, you know it’s a very real possibility that Katie Bell might have been prepared to give you this necklace. And I don’t think I quite like the idea of that.”

“Nor do I,” Darcy retorts, frowning. “But Katie can’t have been delivering it to me. I wasn’t in Hogwarts at the time.”

“Did she know that?” Lupin asks, frustratingly persistent. “I didn’t see her when we left the castle, and I didn’t see her until Harry came for us. It’s very possible that Katie thought you in the castle.”

Darcy bristles, trying to fight back the rising fear. She shouldn’t have to live in fear at Hogwarts—Dumbledore had always, always promised that Hogwarts was the safest place. Snape had promised her that no harm would come to her while here (a promise that has been broken several times). “Why do you want for me to be the victim so badly?”

“I _don’t_ want it to be you,” he says, almost sounding defensive. “I don’t want it to be anyone, but you most of all. But I want you to be on your guard, and I want you to be careful. You’ve already gotten hurt once—”

“And I’d have known better than to handle something given to me by some Imperiused third-party person.”

“Darcy, I’m not trying to argue with you.” Lupin opens his mouth to continue, but closes it before anything else is said. She swears his hand twitches, as if preparing to jump to his hair before realizing they’re already being used. “I just don’t want anything to happen to you. Stronger witches than you have—”

“You think I can’t defend myself?” Darcy snaps, wishing her anger would flicker out. She doesn’t want to be mad at him, she wants to love him, to appreciate his willingness to help when needed. But seeing Katie in such a terrifying state has planted the seedlings of fear in Darcy, and that’s something she wants to feel much less of—anger being the preferable emotion of the two. It’s easier and more satisfying—it always has been.

“I’m not saying that you can’t defend yourself,” he suggests coolly, looking forward all the while. “I’m only saying that, being a high-target due to your insistence in being in the spotlight, to harm you openly would publicize the people involved. I’m saying that many people who care little for you would rather see it happen as an accident, a coincidence . . . or through a third party to make it unclear as to who was involved.”

Darcy is so stunned by his response that it takes her a moment to form a coherent reply. “You certainly seem to have given this quite a bit of thought.”

“You try being alone with my thoughts for nights on end,” Lupin snaps, lengthening his strides, but Darcy matches him step for step. “I think myself into a panic most nights, and then I come back and hear that you’ve had an accident in class, and see a cursed student handling a cursed necklace that may or may not have been intended for my—” He stops abruptly, but Darcy catches on.

“Girlfriend?”

A flush creeps up his neck, but he answers with an impressive amount of dignity. “Yes.”

“Do you think I’ve learned nothing from my last year here?” Darcy scoffs, loping gracefully ahead to turn around in front of him, stopping him in his tracks. “Dolores Umbridge tried very hard to subtly sabotage me alongside the Ministry, to attempt to take away everything I loved slowly, bit by bit. Meanwhile, whoever sent this necklace was too stupid to realize it would ever reach the inside of Hogwarts. Why should I be so afraid of someone whose plans are so desperate and failable when I have faced far worse enemies?”

Lupin looks at her for a long time, completely unreadable. Darcy’s heart leaps in her throat, but she continues to stand tall, like she hadn’t just been afraid to stand inside the Shrieking Shack without that feeling of doom. This is different, she tells herself. Being afraid of the things that have happened to her—Sirius, her parents, Umbridge, even memories of things she’s done herself that make her hate herself—is different than being afraid of the things that could happen.

This is war. She can be afraid of the hundreds of different possible outcomes, but she won’t show it. To show fear about the future would only prove that she lacks confidence in their strength and the chances of a happy ending.

Putting that theory into motion now seems like a good idea to her in the moment, emboldened by the day’s events.

“You don’t have to worry about me,” Darcy insists.

“That could be the climactic last act speech in one of Shakespeare’s plays,” Lupin says, eerily deadpan, but when the corners of Darcy’s lips quirk, his do, too. “You’ve read far too into my sentiment. Now, please keep walking so we can get this up to the castle before the next moon cycle begins.”

“Dumbledore isn’t here, you know,” she says with a sigh, falling back into step with Lupin as they reach the snowy courtyard, longing for the warmth of the indoors. “What are you going to do with that necklace, anyway?”

The clicking of heels on marble rings throughout the entrance hall as Darcy forces the front doors open noisily. Lupin follows her in, giving his head a shake to get the snow from his hair. Darcy closes the doors behind her, sniffling and brushing herself off, shivering beside the nearest brazier, peeling off her frozen gloves as Professor McGonagall races towards them down the stairs. She approaches Darcy first, holding a hand to her heart as if prepared to collapse from the surprising news. McGonagall’s free hand jumps up to cradle Darcy’s cheek, stern eyes slightly watery.

“Hagrid just came through with Katie Bell,” she says quickly and professionally, giving Darcy’s cheek a gentle pat before moving to Lupin and squeezing his forearm gently. “Here, Remus, give the necklace to Potter . . .”

Lupin gives McGonagall a concerned look, but does as she says. “Keep your gloves on, love,” he tells her quietly, placing the cloth covered necklace in Darcy’s open hands. “I don’t want to take any chances.”

“Take that to Severus, Potter,” McGonagall instructs her and Darcy nods. Despite her gloves and the cloth giving her a thick protection from the necklace, she swears that it almost feels warm in her hands. “Remus, come with me. Where are the children?”

“They’re coming, with Katie’s friend. Leanne saw the entire thing.”

“All right.” McGonagall gives Darcy a sharp look, raising her thin eyebrows. “Are you waiting for an honor guard? Go on, Severus is in his office.”

Darcy blushes. “Yes, Professor.”

With the students either huddled in their warm common room or the library or down in Hogsmeade, the corridors are empty, allowing Darcy to hurry to Snape’s office without being stopped or questioned. She reaches the door rather quickly, still exhausted from the walk back up to the castle, awkwardly opening the door and pushing it open with her elbow.

“Have you ever heard of kn—” Snape whirls around from his place above a nearby table book, a scowl on his face and anger flashing in those black eyes, but he softens at the sight of her, gaze falling from her face to the necklace in her hands. “Darcy. What is this?”

“Don’t touch it,” she tells him, moving forward to place it on his desk. “It’s cursed.”

Snape hesitates. She looks up into his face to find him looking back, exasperated and almost dumbfounded. “Dare I ask _why_ you have a supposedly cursed necklace in my office, and _how_ you managed to get it this far without being molested?”

“Professor McGonagall sent me,” Darcy counters, taking a deep breath and explaining everything, beginning from when Harry had come calling for she and Lupin, and ending when she and Lupin had broken off from them with the necklace.

Snape doesn’t speak or interrupt throughout, his jaw clenched tight, his face drained of what little color had been there in the first place. His reaction to this frightens Darcy far more than Lupin’s. Lupin is always worried about her, sometimes unnecessarily so, but Snape looks downright shocked. He looks afraid. And he must realize that Darcy recognizes this because his quickly rearranges his features.

“Go,” he hisses, swooping around the side of the teacher’s desk, hip-checking her out of the way to better observe the necklace.

“What do you mean?” Darcy frowns, stepping right back up to his side, shoulder to shoulder with Snape. “I’m a teacher now. I’ve every right to be here with you.”

“You’re still an apprentice,” he snaps at her, elbowing her away again as she looks down. “Darcy, get out. Go back to your room.”

“How can you tell that it’s cursed?” Darcy asks, ignoring him completely. She looks down at the opal necklace, tilting her head this way and that to see if there’s some special sparkle about it or some mark that’s barely visible.

Snape sighs, clearly annoyed with her presence, but he doesn’t ask her to leave again. “Take off your gloves, and I’ll show you.”

Darcy stays still for a moment, unsure if he’s joking or not. But when he gestures impatiently at her hands, she quickly removes her gloves, stuffing them into her pockets, looking up at him expectantly, feeling almost excited.

“Hold your hand out, just like this.” Snape’s voice is soft, quiet, not at all condescending. He holds his palm barely inches above the necklace, all of his fingers extended. Darcy looks up at him, mimicking his movements to the left of where his hand is. “All right. Don’t touch it . . . just put your hand as close as you can.” Retracting his hand from atop the necklace, he takes her wrist and moves her hand to where his had been a moment before. “Do you feel it?”

Snape releases her, waiting for an answer. She doesn’t know if she feels it, or her mind is only tricking her. There does seem to be some warmth emanating from it—she can feel it on her palm. And it almost seems like there’s something else—some invisible force that hums softly . . . or maybe the humming is in her head. It’s a light tickle against her palm, barely able to be felt, but there all the same.

“I think so,” she says, looking up from her hand. “What is it?”

“Magic,” he answers simply, in a rather impressive way. Darcy almost feels that she’s in class again. “There are always traces of magic wherever it has been performed or whatever it has been performed on, but this just so happens to be very powerful magic, emitting a much more palpable trace.”

“Wow.” Darcy can’t help but to chuckle very quietly, taking care to not touch the necklace, but wanting to feel the physical manifestation of magic all the same. “Why can’t I feel the magic of Hogwarts whenever I walk down the corridors?”

“You misunderstand,” Snape says, not unkindly. “Different types of magic leave difference traces, and it’s unlikely that you would recognize them, not being as practiced at magic as, say . . . the Headmaster. This particular sensation is caused by the power behind the curse, the power of the caster.”

“Like my shoulder,” she says suddenly, her hand jumping to her left shoulder, where the scars are. “Sometimes it . . . it twinges or—or something when I’m thinking of them, or when I went into the Shrieking Shack.”

Snape nods. “Something like that. Scarring left by werewolves is, currently, something that hasn’t been studied, given that most victims don’t live through the attack. But it could be a trace of magic of some sort, yes.”

“Professor,” Darcy says again, lowering her arm back to her side. Snape turns slightly to look at her. “Remus thinks it possible the necklace may have been intended for me.”

He looks away quickly, hands splayed on his desk on either side of the necklace. “I don’t think you were the sender’s target.”

A wave of relief washes over her. “Was it for Professor Dumbledore?”

Snape clears his throat, his words icy cold. “Whoever the intended target was, it was a poor attempt. Run along, Darcy. I’ve work to do.”

Darcy takes a step back as a reckless daring takes hold of her. “Do you know something?”

“I said, _run along_.”

It’s an order, and easily recognizable as one, especially as he turns his back to her. “Yes, sir.” And then remembering the other interesting event of the day—“Professor Snape, Mundungus Fletcher has been stealing _my_ things from _my_  house.”

He doesn’t even turn around to answer her, but answers without missing a beat. “Consider it taken care of.”

Darcy leaves with a small smile on her face, feeling very grateful that she isn’t Mundungus Fletcher, and that she doesn’t have to face the wrath of Severus Snape.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Sorry about the wait between chapters, but I have such good news that I HAVE to share with everyone! May 3rd, my nephew, Andy, was born to my “little” brother and his girlfriend! He’s so sweet and cute, so now you know I have an excellent reason for taking so long :^)

“Stop it, I’m busy.”

“You’re always busy,” Lupin purrs, leaving very distracting kisses down her neck. “Since when have you been immune to my charm?”

“I’m not immune,” she teases, giggling when his beard scratches against the crook of her neck, tickling her and causing goosebumps to rise without warning. “This is very difficult for me, but I’ve been practicing self-control.”

He chuckles, his breath hot on her pulse before he places another kiss there. “Perhaps you should work on your ability to lie, seeing that practicing self-control has seemingly done nothing for you.” Lupin tries to stopper her ink bottle, but Darcy slaps his hand away. “Don’t make me hold you down, Darcy.”

“I’m serious, Remus,” she laughs, pushing him gently away. “I’m working. Can’t you see? I’ve been putting it all off because of you.”

“And you’ve been putting off kissing me for far too long,” he moans, placing a hand to her left cheek to bring her face closer to him, kissing down her jawline. “Can’t you see I’m absolutely desperate for your attention?”

Darcy bites her cheek, trying to stifle a smile. “Fine,” she says, placing all of her things onto the table. “A quick one, then I have to finish.”

Lupin wastes no time, capturing her lips with his as soon as she turns her head. Darcy responds with eager enthusiasm, allowing him to lay her back on the sofa, unbuttoning her jeans to shove a hand roughly down them. She sighs into his mouth, her hands traveling up the back of his sweater, her palms running over the raised scars on his back. He breaks the kiss to pull his sweater over his head, tossing it to the side. Darcy takes a moment to admire him, straddling her waist, tracing the scars on his stomach with her fingertips. He watches her for a moment, the corners of his lips quirking upwards.

“Remus?”

“Hm?” Lupin tucks some stray red hairs behind her ears, looking very much (or so she thinks) like a man in love.

“I love you,” she whispers, touching his collarbones, his biceps, finger trailing down the middle of his chest. As much as the scars on his torso horrify her, picturing him inflicting them himself, they’re endearing, things he wouldn’t show just anyone. “You’re beautiful.”

Lupin blushes— _actually_ blushes—his face turning bright pink in a way she’s never seen before. He looks away from her, but Darcy catches his face with her hand. When his eyes close, Darcy sits up and kisses his chest, just over his heart. That seems to be the key to breaking through his burning embarrassment, and he urges her out of her own shirt, tugging it over her own head.

Before they can go any further, there’s a sharp knocking on the door. Lupin sighs, clearly irritated and not bothering to hide it, resting his forehead against hers. “I’m starting to think they’re doing this on purpose,” he says quietly, kissing her lips. Adopting a more playful tone, he adds, “It’s like they don’t trust us behind closed doors.”

Darcy smiles. “Go away!” she calls. “I’m terribly busy!”

“You better be decent and at this door in five seconds, Potter!” McGonagall’s voice calls back, and both Darcy and Lupin quickly dress, not having expected her to be their evening caller. Within five seconds, Darcy is opening the door, both of them fully dressed. “You’ve a visitor.”

“What are _you_ doing here?” Darcy asks bluntly of Barnabas Cuffe.

He scoffs, baring his crooked teeth. At least he’s tried to comb his hair, for it lies a little flatter on his head the last time she’d seen him. Pink-cheeked and smug, Cuffe sniffs. “Thank you, Minerva,” he says as McGonagall makes to leave the office. “Looking fit these days.” Without even looking back at McGonagall, Cuffe pushes past Darcy into her private rooms.

Darcy closes the door slowly, turning around. Lupin looks at Cuffe, positively bewildered, glancing at Darcy as if in the hopes of some explanation. Darcy continues to watch as Cuffe meanders about, looking at her personal effects, picking up a framed photograph from an end table and examining it critically. Finally, he straightens up, looks Lupin up and down, and makes a _hmpf_! sound.

“You’re the boy, then?” he asks gruffly, and Lupin looks quite taken aback, looking down at Cuffe’s outstretched hand. “Barnabas Cuffe. Reckon Potter’s told you about me by now.”

Comprehension dawns on Lupin’s face, but he still shakes Cuffe’s hand rather warily. “Remus Lupin.”

Another _hmpf_!, this time with less contempt. “You’re taller than I thought you would be. And less hairy.”

Lupin opens his mouth to reply, but seems so stunned by the absurdity of Cuffe’s statement that he immediately closes it. He blinks in surprise, trying to form a coherent thought, looking in Cuffe’s hard, serious, and craggy face, unsure if it’s a joke or not. “You do realize I’m only a wolf once a month, don’t you? Have you ever actually met a werewolf before?” he manages to ask.

“No,” Cuffe replies. “You’re the first. How do you feel about that, boy?”

Lupin raises an eyebrow. “Yet to be determined.”

Cuffe, clearly unamused with Lupin’s scathing tone, turns back to Darcy, approaching slowly, his hands behind his back. He’s dressed almost richly tonight, she thinks, especially for a unexpected visit at nine o’clock on Sunday night. His black traveling cloak is very obviously new, hiding a tan suit that does little for him. She looks him up and down, her arms folded over her chest as she leans against the closed door that leads to her office.

“Nice brooch,” Darcy says flatly, raising her eyebrows as she gestures to the large, purple M brooch that clasps his cloak together around the drooping, thin skin of his neck.

Cuffe grins again, fingering it. “Knew you’d like that, Potter. Rufus Scrimgeour sent this with his beautiful fucking eagle owl to me the day after your first article appeared in the paper.”

“What a strange coincidence,” Darcy snorts.

“Is it?” he asks mockingly, removing it from his cloak. Cuffe folds his cloak over his arm, looking down at the brooch with what seems sincere interest. “Since then, he’s given me lots of gifts—chocolates, access to otherwise inaccessible places within the Ministry as far as press goes, this here nice cloak . . . he gives much nicer gifts than Fudge did.”

“Strange,” Darcy says, picturing Scrimgeour cooped up in his office, flipping through the newspaper, outraged at Darcy’s willingness to work with the Prophet and not the Ministry. “The Minister hasn’t sent _me_ any gifts.”

“Don’t worry, Potter. I’m not giving you up to that fucking lion of a man.” He tosses the brooch to Darcy. “Here. Have it. You’ve earned it, haven’t you?”

Darcy catches it, swiping the pad of her thumb over it. She’s sure if sufficient lighting were to hit it, it would sparkle beautifully. “I’d rather see it burn. Throw it away, wear it as you please, but I don’t want it. As if I’d wear this where people could see it.”

“I don’t fucking care what you do with it,” Cuffe sighs irritably, beckoning her forward. “C’mere. Sit down. I’m here on business, not pleasure, so don’t worry. You, boy—” He points at Lupin, still standing by the fire, looking utterly out of place and very confused. “Sit down, would you?”

Darcy doesn’t at all appreciate being told to sit down in her own space, but she sits all the same, beside Lupin on the sofa.

Cuffe occupies an armchair, leaning forward dramatically. “I’ve got something I think you’ll like Potter,” he tells her, smiling that toothy smile. “Word around the office is that some unlucky bastard was cursed down in Hogsmeade yesterday.”

Darcy feels as if he’s dumped a bucket of icy cold water over her head, dousing her. Goosebumps rise on her skin, and she bristles—the fact that Cuffe would refer to Katie Bell, an unfortunate victim, a student, a child, is insulting and bold beyond what Darcy thought Cuffe possible of, but she keeps her resolve, despite her noticing Lupin’s slowly fading from his face.

“That unlucky bastard’s name is Katie Bell,” Darcy answers defiantly, sitting up straighter on the sofa. “And if you’ve come here to gossip, then I’ll have to ask you to leave.”

“I’m not here to fucking gossip. Duncan was the one that wanted to gossip. Who else do you think I heard it from?” Cuffe retorts, no less amused. “You were there. I want you to break the story.”

She hesitates, exhaling loudly and sitting back again, Lupin’s arm draped across the back of the sofa, brushing her shoulders. She knows if she looks at Lupin and sees the reluctance and horror on his face, she’ll give it up, so she forces herself not to look at him. Her heart races in her chest. This is what she wanted—use the advice column to build up to bigger and better things. She looks down at the brooch still in her hands, turning it over as the firelight touches it just right, making the purple much more vivid.

“How much do you know about what happened? Tell it true, Potter.”

“Only a little. Only what happened when she touched the cursed necklace.”

“I want this fucking story in my newspaper no later than Tuesday, do you hear me?” Cuffe tells her, pointing a threatening finger in her direction. “I want to know everything you can. I want you to go into the Three Broomsticks and talk to everyone you can. I want you to go to St Mungo’s and talk to the fucking Healers who’ve been watching over this . . . er . . .” Cuffe snaps his fingers impatiently.

“Katie Bell,” Darcy supplies.

He nods. “ _Katie Bell_ ,” he repeats, in a tone that clearly tells Darcy he’s only saying the name to appease her. “I want it sent to my office by tomorrow evening.”

“How am I supposed to do all of that in one day?” Darcy demands, huffing. “You know that I work full time for Hogwarts. I have classes tomorrow. I can’t just skive off to go poking my nose around a pub and a hospital.”

Cuffe shrugs innocently, slapping his hands to his knees and pushing himself up to his feet. “Guess I asked the wrong fucking person,” he sighs, making a big show of wrapping his cloak back around his shoulders. “I thought we came to an agreement that you were going to make time for the _Prophet_ , but I guess I was wrong. Can’t trust no one these days, can you?”

Darcy knows that he’s baiting her, but she answers quickly anyway. “Fine, I’ll do it.”

“Knew you fucking would. And one more thing before I let you kids be.” Cuffe reaches into the inside pocket of his suit, pulling out a folded up piece of paper. He unfolds it, showing it to Darcy. “What the _fuck_ is this?”

She recognizes it immediately, blushing. It had been the first article she’d written with her typewriter, having somewhat gotten better at typing more consistently and with less errors. “It’s my last advice piece. What’s wrong with it?”

Cuffe scoffs loudly, shaking the paper in his fist. “Are you on drugs?”

“No,” she answers defensively.

“So you’re just naturally like this?”

“Like _what_?”

“Are you a Muggle?”

“No,” Darcy growls, blushing harder all the while, wishing Lupin were gone to make this scene all the less humiliating. She can’t even look at him, afraid he’ll laugh at her.

“Do you want to be a Muggle?”

“No!”

“Then what the fuck are you using a typewriter for?” Cuffe asks, pocketing her paper again. “Pick up a fucking quill, or better yet—dictate to your fucking quill. Your sentences and thoughts are choppy when you use a typewriter. It’s the first thing I noticed. You don’t elaborate on your thoughts. You’re an eloquent speaker—when you want to be—so if you dictate your advice to your quill, your writing will be eloquent. If you want to write some nostalgic piece on your vintage fucking typewriter, then do so for a Muggle newspaper, but not for mine.”

Darcy looks away from both Cuffe and Lupin, a lump forming in her throat.

“Potter, I’m not trying to knock you down,” Cuffe continues, in what seems to be a softer and gentler tone. Darcy watches out of the corner of her eye as Cuffe sighs and turns to Lupin. “Boy, give us a minute alone, would you?”

“Of course,” Lupin answers, and Darcy hears the sofa groan as he stands, feels his hand upon her shoulder giving her a reassuring squeeze. It says something that he doesn’t protest Cuffe’s calling him ‘boy’ in the moment. “I’ll be right outside.”

When the door opens and closes, Darcy feels safe enough to look slowly up at Barnabas Cuffe again, her face burning with embarrassment. He sighs heavily again, scratching the short, white bristles on his face and seating himself in the chair again.

“Potter, how old are you?”

“Twenty-one,” she says softly, her pride and all of what little self-confidence remains her shattered to pieces.

“Twenty-one. Did you think, when I offered you this job, I expected a twenty-one-year-old girl to succeed without any guidance or experience? You think I didn’t expect hiccups?” He quiets, watching her with the softest expression she’s ever seen him wear. Darcy only shrugs, avoiding his gaze again. “I went to a Muggle university. Did you know that?”

Darcy nods. “Emily told me.”

“It’s true,” he affirms, nodding his head along with her. “I went because I wanted to learn as much as I could about journalism, because I wanted to be the best I could be. And even after I learned all that I thought I could, the people I worked for still had the audacity to call my writing shite. But you know what? It made me better.” Cuffe must realize this isn’t making her feel better because he cringes and clears his throat, trying a different approach. “Why do you want to write, anyway? You can tell me the truth. It’s just us now. You’ve got a nice, cushy job here at Hogwarts. And from what Minerva tells me, you’re damn good at it.”

Darcy swallows hard, forcing herself not to cry. It’s easier with each time she does it. What harm could come from telling Cuffe the truth? “I _am_ good at what I do, but I feel like some people look at me and realize I’m only here because I’m Darcy Potter. I’m seen as Harry Potter’s sister. I just wanted a chance to prove that I’m my own person, with my own thoughts and feelings, and I thought by writing for a mass-distributed paper, I’d be heard.”

Cuffe strokes his chin, still bobbing his head slowly. “Listen, Potter, I’ve known people three times your age that couldn’t write half as well as you. You want to know why?” She shrugs again. “Because they didn’t fucking listen to criticism. They thought their writing was fucking perfect and never changed. You’re young, with little experience. I want you to be better, understand?”

Darcy closes her fingers over the M brooch, squeezing tight as if hoping to break it. “Yes, sir.”

“Don’t call me fucking _sir_ , Potter,” Cuffe says roughly, but there’s still a small smile on his face when he does. “Your writing is poor when you do it on your typewriter. It’s rushed and it’s not genuine. If I thought you couldn’t be helped, I’d have fired you already. Plus, Duncan vouches for you, and as much as that fucking girl wears on my nerves, she’s smarter than people give her credit for.” This makes Darcy smile. He stands once more, brushing off the front of his suit and cloak. From another pocket, he takes out another piece of parchment. “Your new topic. Thought you might like it. Little too girly for my taste, and Bertram would never have done it, but . . .”

Darcy takes the parchment, unrolling it. The subject matter actually makes her jaw drop slightly. She looks up at Cuffe. “I’m not giving advice on this.”

“Oh, come on, Potter,” Cuffe groans, but it’s clear that the prospect is very amusing to him. “Now that you’re out advice columnist, young girls—Hogwarts age girls—are sending letters in left and right. Humor her, and humor me, would you?”

“I’m not going to give advice to some girl who likely goes to school here about what it feels like to lose her virginity.” If she didn’t know Ginny hated the _Daily Prophet_ with a burning passion, Darcy has to admit Ginny would be her first guess.

Cuffe smiles wide. “Can’t handle a challenge?” When Darcy only huffs angrily again and pockets the parchment, Cuffe nods. “That’s my girl. I want your article on the cursed kid by Tuesday night. Fair?”

“Yeah.”

“You all right?”

Darcy gives another small nod. She feels as if she’s been nodding for hours.

Cuffe claps a hand on her upper arm, giving her a small and affectionate shake. “You’re a good kid, Potter. If you ever want out, then you tell me, and you’re out. No questions asked.”

She shakes her head this time. “I don’t want out.”

His hand jumps to her cheek, to give her a gentle tap with his palm. It makes her swell with pride, and especially sad to know Cuffe can see right through her. She holds out the brooch in her open palm, offering it to him.

“Please, take it back,” she says softly. “I don’t want it.”

“No,” Cuffe agrees, taking it from him and fastening it to his cloak again. “I didn’t think you would.”

Darcy follows him to the door, opening it for him. Lupin stands from where he’d been sitting on her desk, looking from Cuffe to Darcy anxiously. She watches as Cuffe approaches Lupin, nearly a foot shorter, but looking him up and down again, pursing his lips.

“You take good care of that girl?” Cuffe asks in an accusing tone.

Lupin clears his throat, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “I try to.”

“Don’t try,” Cuffe responds. “Just _do_. Pretty young girl like that could do a hell of a lot better than you, so make it worth her while, would you?”

Lupin furrows his brow for a moment, and then tilts his head back and laughs. “You act like I don’t already know she could do better than me.”

Cuffe holds out a hand, and this time when Lupin takes it, his handshake seems a little firmer, a little more confident. “I imagine as a werewolf, jobs don’t come easy.”

Smiling nervously, Lupin shrugs. “Little bit.”

“If a job opens up, I’ll let Potter know.”

Lupin’s eyes widen in surprise. “That’s—that’s very kind, but unnecessary for the time being.”

“As you say. Goodnight, kids.”

When Barnabas Cuffe finally takes his leave, Darcy wraps her arms around Lupin’s middle, burying her face in his shoulder. He holds her for a moment, kissing the top of her head, nuzzling into her hair. “He’s a charming bloke,” Lupin murmurs. “Is he always so . . . ?”

“It’s an act, I think,” Darcy chuckles, letting her eyes fall shut. “Don’t worry about him.”

“What did he say to you?” he asks, looking sick with worry. It’s a very Remus Lupin expression that Darcy has grown very familiar with over the years. “I was loathe to leave you with him, but I was afraid he might fire you on the spot if I didn’t.”

“He wouldn’t have. I think he’s a good man, deep down. He just didn’t want to become soft in front of another man.” She smiles sweetly at him.

“Is it just me, or were you surprised at his . . . general acceptance of me?” Lupin pulls away slightly to look down at her.

“What did you expect?”

“Most people, upon learning what I am, recoil, or . . . oh, I don’t know.” He sighs, kissing her temple and swooping over the threshold into her rooms. “Let me take you to bed, love. Your work will still be there in the morning.”

Darcy follows, her legs moving towards him of their own accord. She would follow Lupin anywhere, she thinks. All he’d have to do is smile at her, or beckon to her, or call for her, and she’d be there.

And it’s so hard for her to refuse when he takes her by the hand, grinning all the way, slowly backing them into the bedroom. It’s even harder to refuse when he begins to undress her, comforting her in the best way he knows how—his hot mouth kissing down her spine, marking her bare chest and shoulders with gentle love bites, exploring her body with his fingers as if he’s never touched her before, whispering those words of praise that seem so practiced and yet still so honest and genuine.

* * *

Professor Slughorn is far more understanding of Darcy’s predicament than she could have hoped. It plants seeds of doubt in the back of her mind, doing something that Slughorn so agrees with, but she shakes it off, and before noon, both she and Lupin are on their way down to Hogsmeade.

Darcy couldn’t have asked for a more perfect day. She tries to focus on the sunshine, the blinding effect it has on her as it reflects off the snow that still covers the grounds. The air is crisp, but not biting without the wind. Saturday had been knives piercing her skin with every small gust, but the air today is still, and the sun causes the snow to melt, making every step wet and muddy and soft.

Even the villagers seem to recognize what a rare day they have on their hands. They’re out in force, it seems, always walking in pairs, wearing heavy cloaks that tell Darcy who they are. She sees cloaks that look to have been pulled right off a rack or shelf in some expensive shop, and some people’s cloaks are tattered and worn, the bottoms soaking wet and frayed after being dragged on the ground. Others are vibrant colors, almost with a life of their own—rich purples with gold embroidery, emerald greens with silver trim, bold reds with fur lining to keep their wearers as warm as possible.

Darcy and Lupin keep their heads down, hoods pulled up to keep away unwanted attention as they make their way to the Three Broomsticks. Darcy had voiced her opinion on the way down, had suggested to Lupin that evening would be a better time to visit the Three Broomsticks, and that they should travel to St Mungo’s first in order to see if there was any missing links that they’d missed before. But Lupin had convinced her to visit on their way to St Mungo’s since they’ll be in Hogsmeade already.

She’s quite glad she listened to his advice. Before noon, the Three Broomsticks is hardly the establishment it is during its prime evening hours. The common room smells more like coffee than stale drink and smoke, and less than half the tables are being used. The ones that are in use are the ones more hidden from view—tucked away in the corners or pressed against back walls, the tables furthest from the door. There is only one occupant at the bar, currently arguing with a squat barman about filling her thermos with coffee instead of wasting a mug on her.

Her eyes flick towards the door when the bell rings to signal customers, and Emily’s bright blue eyes widen with surprise at the sight of Darcy and Lupin. Emily must be on guard duty in Hogsmeade, for she’s dressed rather professionally, especially considering the early time. The cloak draped around her shoulders is gray wool, and beneath the cloak, she’s clad in Muggle clothes—a dead giveaway to her background, Darcy thinks, and maybe something that shouldn’t be flaunted during such times as these. But Emily looks beautiful all the same, and there’s something about seeing her running towards them that’s endearing and charming when Darcy recalls Emily’s disdain for Lupin she’d held close to her heart for so long.

“Fancy meeting you two here,” Emily smiles, throwing her hair back out of her face and raising her eyebrows. “Is it normal for teachers to skive off every now and again?”

“We’re on business today, not pleasure,” Darcy answers, shrugging at Emily’s amused skepticism. “What did you tell Cuffe about Katie Bell for?”

Emily looks around, lowering her voice. “Because a student being cursed so close to Hogwarts is big news. When did you get a chance to speak with him?”

“Surprise visit last night. He wants me to break the story.”

“Ah,” Emily replies, looking far more excited than she should. “So it’s investigative work you’re doing?” When Darcy gives another modest shrug of her shoulders, Emily folds her arms over her chest, looking smug. “If that’s the case, you could use an Auror on your side, couldn’t you?”

Lupin turns to face Darcy, noticing her reluctance. It’s not that she doesn’t want Emily to come, but after all that’s happened, to have an Auror leave her post seems downright dangerous. But as usual, Lupin’s words absolve her fears. “It might be easier for us to see Katie if we have an Auror with us,” he reasons, earning himself a small smile from Emily.

“Should you leave your post?” Darcy frowns. The last thing she needs is for someone else to be cursed, or for something far worse to happen. The brief image of the Dark Mark lingering ominously over Hogwarts makes her shudder.

“Tonks is around here somewhere,” Emily says, waving a flippant hand. “I’m sure she can take care of things.” Yet even so, Darcy doesn’t miss the significant look Emily casts in her direction when Lupin turns his back on them to open the door. She’s sure Tonks is a very capable Auror, but given the state she’s been in recently . . .

“All right,” Darcy sighs. “Off to St Mungo’s.”

For the middle of October, London is pleasantly warm. Or maybe it’s not warm, but compared to the brutal winter up in the Scottish Highlands this year, the temperature is positively mild and enjoyable. With her cloak wrapped around her still and the sun beating down uncomfortably on her, the back of Darcy’s neck soon begins to grow hot, and it’s clear that both Emily and Lupin—judging by their constant squirming and fidgeting—feel the same way.

And Darcy’s sure the three of them seem very out of place on the streets. Men pass them by in freshly ironed suits, or button-down shirts with their ties loosened and sleeves rolled up, jackets thrown lazily over their arms. Women wearing light jackets over their professional wear distractedly fan themselves with their hands, or else wear pretty hats to shield their faces from the autumn sun. Thankfully, not many people spare Darcy, Lupin, or Emily simple glances—their cloaks surely give them away that they’re either tourists or just complete morons.

St Mungo’s isn’t much better. The waiting room is full of sick patients moaning and coughing and sneezing. Being squeezed in with so many people in an already stuffy room, it only makes Darcy more hot, and she pulls the front of her sweater up over the majority of her face at the sounds of hacking and choking and the groans of the dramatically ill and victims of incorrectly performed spells. The welcome witch that had greeted them last year when they’d visited Mr. Weasley is gone, replaced for the day by a girl fresh out of Hogwarts that Darcy barely recognizes. When the three of them shuffle up to the desk, the girl snaps her gum and looks them all over critically, bangs hiding her forehead from view and falling into her eyes.

“Well, well, well,” the girl says, her voice unenthusiastic. Darcy wishes she could remember her name. She’d been a Ravenclaw, Darcy thinks. “Isn’t this about the weirdest group of people I’ve seen all day.” Cheeks flushing with color, she adds, “Hi, Professor Lupin.”

Lupin smiles weakly, clearing his throat. “Good morning, Miss Rowan.”

Emily narrows her eyes when the girl blushes, looking incredulously to a highly uncomfortable looking Lupin. “Hi, Maisie,” Emily answers, pushing past both Darcy and Lupin to lean on the counter. “Look, we’ve got to see Katie Bell. Can you tell us where they have her?”

“Sorry, but Katie Bell’s not eligible for non-family visitors at the moment,” Maisie answers mechanically, as if she’s said this a hundred times today already. “It’s at the request of her mother and father. You’ll understand, of course. What happened to her was absolutely dreadful.”

“You heard?” Darcy asks quickly, moving closer, Lupin right at her heels. “It _was_ dreadful, wasn’t it?”

Maisie looks Darcy up and down, regarding her with a certain curiosity—no doubt wondering if it’s safe to gossip to her. “What are you three here for, anyway? Why are you so interested in Katie?”

Emily sighs, reaching under her cloak to retrieve a small badge of sorts. Just like Cuffe’s had been, Emily’s is a purple M, as well, set against a shield with two crossed wands. Maisie continues to snap her gum, unaffected by this sudden revelation. “We’re here on behalf of the Auror office. I’ve been tasked with looking into her case,” Emily says coolly, and Darcy has to admit that the way she says it is rather intimidating and impressive. “Darcy and Remus were there when it happened. I’m sure Katie’s parents would be glad to see us.”

Maisie twirls a strand of brown hair around her finger, looking them all over again as if expecting to catch them in a lie. “I don’t know,” she says slowly. “I was told not to let anyone into her room, or give out any information . . .”

Both Emily and Lupin look at Darcy. It takes her a moment to realize what they’re expecting from her, but she catches on quick enough, grumbling under her breath all the while. She reaches into her pocket and, dramatically, places a single Galleon on the counter.

Maisie looks at it for a moment before cocking an eyebrow.

Darcy sighs heavily, placing another three Galleons on the counter. Maisie scoops them both up and pockets them inconspicuously. “Down the hall here, first floor. Take a right at the end of the hall and she’s through the first door on the left.”

“Having rich friends comes in handy, doesn’t it?” Emily whispers as they make their way down the first floor corridor. “I’m bringing you on every investigation from here on out.”

“Let’s just get on with it, shall we?” Darcy hisses. “The sooner we get out of here, the happier I’ll be.”

“What?” Emily laughs, elbowing her playfully. “Afraid you’re going to catch dragon pox?”

“You do remember the last time we were here, don’t you?”

Emily smirks. “Oh, come off it. We won’t go visit Lockhart, if it please you. We can see if Gemma’s working afterwards.”

“It would be nice to see her,” Darcy agrees. She looks up at Lupin. “She doesn’t know you’re back yet, does she?”

“No, not that I know of,” Lupin answers, taking hold of Darcy’s hand and squeezing as Emily knocks briskly on the door of Katie’s room and takes hold of the doorknob. “Er . . . maybe I should wait out here.”

“Nonsense,” Emily frowns, urging him inside, holding the door open with her foot. “You were there. They’ll likely want to hear from you.”

“Emily . . .” Lupin says warningly, but it’s a weak protest, and Darcy places her hands on the small of his back to give him the push he needs.

“It’ll be fine, Remus, trust me,” Darcy whispers, and it seems to give him the strength he needs to walk inside with some dignity.

Katie Bell’s parents seem surprised to see the three of them walk through the door, and it’s no surprise why. Darcy’s gaze is first drawn to the lifeless-looking girl on the bed, half covered by a blanket. She looks beautiful with her rich chestnut hair fanned out on her pillow, hauntingly so—there is still color in her face, but it looks too vibrant to be real, as if someone has painted lipstick on her lips and colored her cheeks. Her chest rises and falls slowly, and what shows of her body lacks any evidence of harm. Darcy tries to see her hands, which had touched the necklace to begin with, but they’re curled into loose fists by her side and it’s hard to say if there are marks there or not.

Mrs. Bell looks very much a broken woman, with the same dark hair as her daughter. She’s seated in a straight-backed chair beside Katie’s bed, holding a handkerchief to her mouth, occasionally dabbing at her swollen and red-rimmed eyes. She’s a petite woman, maybe ten years Lupin’s senior, but pretty and likely sprightly if she weren’t crying.

Mr. Bell is the opposite. Standing at his wife’s shoulder, everything about this man’s expression leads Darcy to believe Mr. Bell is a rough, hardened, stern, and very firm man. Darcy’s sure that if he took his clothes off, he’d be chiseled from stone—shoulders that could carry her on the right and Emily on the left, a chest that strains against the fabric of his shirt, and thick, tree-trunk legs underneath his tight trousers. A hard man with closely cropped hair and a nose that’s clearly been broken several times, but not a mean man. His expression does not tell Darcy he’s unhappy to see her, which gives her some small relief.

Taking quick notice that neither Emily nor Lupin are going to speak first, Darcy clears her throat, shooting them a dangerous look over her shoulder before addressing Mr. and Mrs. Bell.

“Hi,” she says softly, smiling a sympathetic smile. “I’m Darcy Potter. Katie and I went to school together.” She shakes hands with them—Mr. Bell’s grip is crushing, while Mrs. Bell’s is dainty and fragile and shaky. “This is Emily Duncan, she’s an Auror from the Ministry. And this is Remus Lupin, Katie’s former Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher. He was in Hogsmeade with me when Katie was cursed.”

“Oh!” Mrs. Bell gasps, hiccuping loudly behind her handkerchief. For a moment, Darcy expects the worst—of course Mrs. Bell would know Lupin is a werewolf—“Katie was absolutely delighted with your classes. She wrote such sweet things, and she was so sorry to see you go . . .”

Lupin smiles awkwardly, inclining his head. “That’s very kind of her. Katie was an outstanding student.”

“Please,” Mr. Bell says, “sit with us.” His demeanor changes within moments from closed off to friendly as can be, and he conjures three chairs for Darcy, Emily, and Lupin, finally conjuring one for himself.

“Have the Aurors been investigating?” Mrs. Bell asks Katie desperately, less weepy already than when they’d walked in. “The Ministry hasn’t been able to tell us anything about who might have given her the necklace, and we haven’t been able to meet with the Headmaster since the incident.”

“Well, actually . . . that’s why we’re here,” Darcy explains, feeling sick with guilt when she watches their faces fall. “We were wondering if there was anything you could tell us, like . . . if Katie had sent home any letters that seemed off? Or was she hanging round with anyone she doesn’t usually?”

Mr. and Mrs. Bell look at each other blankly, shaking their heads. “No,” Mrs. Bell says. “Not that we know of, but Katie gets so busy with Quidditch that she sometimes forgets to write. It had been maybe three weeks since we’d last heard from her before . . . the incident.”

“I understand,” Darcy answers, answering Emily’s knowing look with one of her own. “Has she woken at all?”

“No,” Mr. Bell tells her sadly, reaching out for Katie’s limp hand. “We were told by Healers she arrived like this. The current Defense teacher had stopped the corruption of the curse before it took hold of her completely, they said.”

“No one has been able to tell us what happened exactly,” Mrs. Bell continues, leaning forward. “You say you were there . . .”

“My brother could tell it better than I could,” Darcy frowns, wanting to run away. She hadn’t realized she’d been put on the spot with questions of their own. “The truth is, I don’t really know what happened, only the aftermath.” Darcy turns helplessly to Lupin, who has done a perfect job of being quiet.

Lupin sits up straighter and looks both Mr. and Mrs. Bell in the eyes. “Darcy and I had been away from the High Street when Harry found us . . .” He tells them the honest truth, exactly how Harry had described it. Even now, during such an awkward and tense situation, Darcy can’t help but admire the way Lupin doesn’t hold back from giving them details she would have kept to herself.

“So, you don’t know who cursed her?” Mrs. Bell asks, crying again into her handkerchief.

“It’s like I said,” Lupin repeats patiently, as gentle as if speaking to someone on their deathbed. “It’s highly likely that whoever gave Katie the necklace also placed her under the Imperius Curse. I think we’re all in agreement that the necklace was never meant for Katie.”

“She was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Do you have a telephone at your home?” Emily stands when Mr. Bell nods, pulling a small card out from underneath her cloak. She holds it out for him to take. “When Katie wakes, or when she makes some progress, call me. We can make educated guesses all day long, but we won’t know for certain who gave her the necklace until she can tell us herself or until someone confesses.”

Without Katie awake to tell them anything, and without any new information from her parents, the three of them say quiet good-byes and take their leave of Katie’s room quickly.

“That was humiliating,” Darcy sighs as soon as the door is shut. “Do you think we were in the right to tell them what happened?”

“I wonder why Dumbledore hasn’t met with them,” Lupin muses aloud, falling behind as a group of young Healers pass by, hurriedly following an older Healer. “It seems the sort of thing a headmaster should deal with.”

Darcy stops abruptly. Lupin barrels into her back, stepping on the backs of her feet. She turns on her heels. “Dumbledore’s barely been at Hogwarts lately,” she says. “His seat is empty most days. You didn’t know that?”

“I’ve been away,” Lupin shrugs. “I don’t get any news where I am.”

Even Emily’s expression is one of confusion and suspicion.

“You didn’t know, either?” Darcy asks her. “Dumbledore didn’t tell Mad-Eye or Kingsley or Tonks? Anyone?”

“If they did know, they never mentioned it to me.” Emily looks around, lost. “Let’s find Gemma.”

Gemma, it turns out, is spattered with blood and elbow deep in some kind of plant that’s suffocating someone. She is, however, delighted that they’ve come to see her.

“Well isn’t this a pleasant surprise. If I weren’t soaked with blood, I’d hug you all,” Gemma says distractedly, flashing Darcy a gleaming smile before looking at Lupin. “Are they treating you well?”

“About as well as one would expect,” Lupin answers sardonically.

Gemma motions towards the door with her head. Withdrawing her hands from the open plant, it gives a long shriek and relaxes around its victim’s body, who sighs. “What are you three doing here, anyway?” she asks them when they’re out of earshot of her patient.

Darcy gives answer. “Detective work, actually. You heard about Katie Bell?”

Gemma’s face turns suddenly very grim. “Yeah, I heard about Katie. Snape brought her in and explained what had happened. Lucky someone was there to help her.”

Darcy’s thankful Lupin asks the next question, seeing as she can’t find a tasteful way to put it. “Have you heard anything?”

“I’m not privy to any assassination plots, if that’s what you’re asking,” Gemma says, not unkindly. “Either someone went rogue, or there’s something happening that I don’t know about, and my guess is the latter.”

“ _Smythe_!” A wizened old Healer sticks his head through the doorway, eyeing Gemma suspiciously. “Someone’s coming in, backfired Memory Charm. Go get it.” And as quick as he appears, he’s gone.

“Shouldn’t you take care of that?” Emily asks nervously, biting down on her lower lip and peering after the man.

Gemma ignores Emily and the Healer. “When do you leave again?”

“Next Monday,” Lupin says.

“How about Saturday evening?” Gemma suggests quickly as she wipes her gloves on the front of her robes. “I’m only working a few hours in the morning.”

Lupin looks down at Darcy, answering when she nods. “Sure. We’ll be round mine.”

“ _Now_ , Smythe!”

“I’m coming!” Gemma barks back, looking apologetically at the three of them before disappearing.

Darcy is exhausted by the time they leave St Mungo’s. The atmosphere had been so heavy and pressing and the sight of Gemma covered in blood hadn’t helped. She checks her watch and is amazed that it’s only half past twelve.

“If we leave now, I’ll be able to be in Harry’s class. I can ask if he saw anything suspicious.” Darcy tilts her head back and groans. “Bet you anything he’ll blame Draco Malfoy.”

“Is it plausible?” Emily asks, scowling at a passing man who shoulder checks her on the sidewalk, who pays her no attention anyway. “His argument, I mean?”

“No,” Darcy scoffs, looping her arm through Lupin’s. “McGonagall was telling me Malfoy was in detention Saturday with her. Besides, Leanne said Katie was given the necklace in the girl’s bathroom.”

“Or on her way to the bathroom,” Lupin hums.

“Or on the way back,” Emily adds helpfully.

“I’ll hear him out.” Darcy smiles up at Lupin to let him know she’s ready. Looking back at Emily one last time, she says, “Coming with?”

“No.” Emily looks around at the busy street, scoping out the buildings and watching all of the people. A car horn blares as someone crosses the street in a hurry. “There’s a cute restaurant around here I thought I’d go to. Meet at the Three Broomsticks for dinner?”

Darcy nods. “Sure.”

“Bye, Darcy. Bye, Remus.”

“Good-bye, Emily.”

* * *

“I’m telling you, it was Malfoy— _don’t_ look.”

Darcy is quick to notice both Ron’s and Hermione’s uncomfortable shifting, and she gets the impression that this isn’t the first time they’ve heard this argument. Hermione focuses solely on her cauldron, and Ron flips distractedly through his book, not seeing or reading, just looking.

She fights the urge to look over her shoulder at Malfoy. “How can it have been, Harry?” Darcy lowers her voice, shifting so her back is facing Malfoy completely. “He wasn’t even in Hogsmeade on Saturday.”

“He could have used an accomplice.”

“Who do you think Malfoy would have wanted to curse, if not Katie Bell?”

“You.”

Harry’s answer is so deadly serious that it makes a chill run down Darcy’s spine. “If he was trying to—if anyone was trying to curse me with a necklace, why would they have brought it up to the castle? They could have left the necklace in Hogsmeade for someone to give to me then.”

“I never said Malfoy was smart about it,” Harry retorts, and his soft voice grows more eager, likely because Darcy’s talking to him about it when no one else will anymore. “It makes sense. After you humiliated his father last summer, he wants revenge, and Voldemort wants to kill me himself, doesn’t he? But does he care who kills you?”

Darcy huffs. “I’m not important enough for Voldemort to want to kill himself?”

Harry stares at her incredulously. “That’s what you’re concerned about?” he hisses. “Darcy, this is serious. Someone could be trying to kill you.”

She inhales deeply, side-eyeing both Ron and Hermione. While they seem very determined to not pay attention to their conversation, Darcy knows that they’re also probably listening very closely to every word. With just over twenty minutes left of class, Darcy turns to find Slughorn brewing his own potion at the front of the class. “Say you have to go to the hospital wing,” Darcy tells Harry through gritted teeth.

“What?” Harry asks, thrown off guard completely.

Darcy leans in closer. “Say you have to go to the hospital wing.”

Even she’s surprised at how quickly Harry complies. She means to walk away, to distance herself from Harry, but she doesn’t make it one step before he announces to the class at large, “Professor Slughorn, I think I have to go to the hospital wing.”

Everyone looks up from their cauldron, glancing from Harry to Professor Slughorn, whose bushy eyebrows knit together in concern, a ladle still held lazily in his left hand. “Harry, m’boy,” he frowns. “Is everything all right?”

Harry blushes slightly. “Stomachache, sir. It must have been something in my potion.”

“All right.” Slughorn waves an impatient hand towards Darcy. “Miss Potter, walk your brother down, would you?”

“Yes, Professor,” Darcy says, taking Harry by the elbow with a vice-like grip and leading him out of the room. Hermione and Ron watch them go, as do Theodore Nott and Draco Malfoy, but Darcy doesn’t pay them much mind. She continues to drag Harry through the door, down a few corridors, up a flight of steps, and pushes him into an empty broom closet where she and Snape had once spoken, hoping for privacy. “ _Muffliato_.”

“Where did you learn that spell?” Harry asks, too quickly.

Darcy narrows her eyes, and Harry seems to realize his mistake. “I heard Snape use it once.” She leans back against the wall, lighting her wand to keep them from drowning in the darkness. “Harry, what is going on with you? Why are you so insistent on it being Malfoy?”

“You don’t think it’s possible?” Harry snaps, but he doesn’t look as angry as Darcy thought he might. Instead there is a desperation in his face that hurts her. She only realizes now how little time they’ve spent together this year, and that hurts more. “Katie Bell was given the necklace in the girl’s bathroom, clearly the necklace was meant for a girl. Who else would it have been meant for?”

“McGonagall?” Darcy suggests, but it’s a weak answer and both she and Harry know it.

Harry raises his eyebrows. “What reason does Malfoy have to curse McGonagall?” he says.

“But you’ve just said it,” Darcy continues, knowing in her gut that she must be right. “A girl gave Katie the necklace, if she did get it in the bathroom. I can’t think of any girl who would go to such lengths to get rid of me—”

“She could have been helping Malfoy—”

“And Professor Snape told me that he didn’t think me the intended target.”

This shuts Harry up quick, but instead of looking comforted and relieved, his expression is one of severe disbelief, of incredulity and caution. “And you believe that? You trust Snape?”

The words come easily and almost naturally to Darcy. “I trust Professor Snape with my life.”

“Why? You know what he is. Look at what he’s done. How do you know he’s not the one who tried to have you killed?”

Darcy falters, trying to find a way to explain without saying too much. “He would never hurt me, Harry. I know he wouldn’t.”

“You don’t know that—”

“Yes, I do.” Darcy knows she’s getting defensive, but Harry’s blatant disregard for Snape being part of the Order—a trusted member—angers her. “Professor Snape would do anything to keep me safe. He would never participate in a plot to curse me, nor would he participate in a plot to curse you.”

“All you’re doing is feeding information about yourself to a Death Eater,” Harry tells her, his voice full of venom and rage. “It’s dangerous and, frankly, stupid.”

Darcy shakes her head. She won’t admit—not that Harry is right—that she’s made a mistake sharing with Snape what she has. She’s shared things with him she wouldn’t admit to anyone, felt things for him she already has a hard time admitting to herself, but she won’t allow Harry to make him out to be the bad guy when he’s not, and hasn’t been for some time.

(to _you_ he’s not the bad guy)

“I trust Professor Snape,” she whispers, “and I’m willing to die on that hill.”

“You’d be the only one,” Harry mutters, turning away from her. Darcy very much feel as if Snape is here, with them, physically driving a wedge between them. “Snape can’t save you from everything. If someone is really trying to hurt you—”

“I’m not afraid,” Darcy insists, her voice louder now to overwhelm Harry’s. “Ever since I heard you tell me the contents of the prophecy, I knew how it might end. I’ve always known it would be you and me in the end, and it’s a cause I am more than willing to die for.” She sighs loudly through her nose. “I’m not going anywhere. Not yet. And no stupid little necklace is going to kill me.”

Harry doesn’t seem so convinced, but it seems he’s ready to move past the necklace for the time being. Before the next words even leave his lips, Darcy knows they aren’t going to be sweet words, either—and they’re not. “Does Lupin know?” he asks her quietly, as if—despite her spellwork—there is someone outside the door with their ear pressed against it. She meets his eyes for a split second. “Does he know that you love Snape?”

“Don’t,” Darcy warns him, her voice hardly more than a whisper, sounding more like a plea than anything. She has to look away from her brother, unable to even look into the eyes that are so like hers. She knows it gives everything away, but it’s better than saying it out loud, better than hearing her own voice say the words that—only recently—she had nearly begged Snape to say to her. “I love Remus.” Darcy hates that the words sound so flat and practiced.

(do you love him?)

_Yes_.

There’s not a doubt in her mind that she loves him. Her sweet Remus, who has always been gentle with her and loving, who has shown her compassion she’d never thought possible. She would trade a hundred of Snape’s kisses for just one from Lupin. Whenever she falls asleep alone at night, it’s Lupin she dreams of, touching her, holding her, kissing her, sighing for her.

But Harry could never understand. His hatred for Snape runs bone deep, a grudge that neither of them will ever forget, a grudge that Snape holds for one Potter and not the other simply because of how Harry looks.

_I look like dad, too._

Darcy wonders if things would be different if she had the same coal-colored hair as her father, if her eyes were hazel instead of green. Is that all it comes down to in the end? Appearances? Or has her time with Snape truly changed him so? Why can’t things be easier, like the way they were? Things were simple back then. It was so easy to hate Professor Snape because he was hardly a person to her.

Part of her wonders if Dumbledore’s pairing them together and watching their relationship develop was part of his plan all along. All throughout Darcy’s first year back, he’d asked the same question— _have you been kind to Professor Snape_? She’d always thought that Dumbledore just wanted her to be a decent person towards him. Now she wonders if Dumbledore had asked her that question because she’d _hurt_ Snape.

Her stomach churns violently. “I have to go,” she croaks, feeling the urge to be sick. “I don’t feel well.”

“Well, I’ve got a meeting with Dumbledore tonight,” Harry tells her before she can get the door open. Her palms are slick with sweat, her face burning in the sudden dark as the light of her wand is extinguished. But she hesitates. “I thought we could have lunch tomorrow, just you and me. And I could tell you about it.”

“Okay.”

“Are you going to give me a detention if I don’t go back to class?”

“No. I’ll see you later, Harry.”

Darcy feels half guilty it’s the only thing she can think of to say before pushing the door open and spilling out into the sunny corridor. She takes a step back towards the dungeons, but freezes. Harry is already making his way towards the entrance hall, likely heading for Gryffindor Tower, leaving Darcy with her thoughts. She could go back to class, finish out the day, and that’s what she should do. And yet . . .

Thankfully, Snape is in the middle of a lecture when Darcy slips into the classroom. A few third year students notice her enter, but say nothing, turning back to the front of the classroom and continuing their note taking. A massive amount of Gryffindors and a handful of Ravenclaws, all—sweet looking children that make her heart ache painfully for a promised future that she knows will never happen.

She’s only there for maybe five minutes before the end of class, watching Snape write furiously on the blackboard, his handwriting so neat and narrow. He doesn’t even notice Darcy sitting at an unoccupied desk in the very back, one leg dangling from her chair while her other is being hugged to her chest, her chin resting against her knee. When the bell rings to signal the end of class, the students nearly race out of the corridor, and after Snape clears the blackboard and turns around for the first time, his entire body tenses at the sight of Darcy, still sitting in the shadows.

“It’s freezing in here,” Darcy notes, nodding towards the empty, ash-strewn fireplace. “You could at least start a fire.”

“I didn’t hear anyone else complaining about it.”

“That’s because I’m the only one who isn’t afraid to say something to you,” she teases, allowing him to come closer, until he’s standing on the opposite side of the desk, his hands splayed atop it.

“Didn’t you have class?” Snape asks warily.

“Yes, but I was tasked with walking my brother down to the hospital wing, so I got out early.”

“And if I walk down to the hospital wing right now, will your brother be there?”

“No,” Darcy answers baldly. “I needed a private word with him. He’s fine, if you were wondering.”

“I wasn’t.”

“I was joking.”

Snape grits his teeth, pulling up a chair and seating himself in it. Darcy watches him, still folded up in her own chair, swinging her long leg back and forth, the bottom of her shoe scraping the ground lightly. “Is there something you would like to tell me, Darcy?”

Darcy frowns, thinking hard for a moment. His eyes bore a hole through her head, but she can’t think of anything she could have done to anger or frustrate him. “No,” she answers, slowly, as if hoping to read the correct answer in his expression. “I don’t think so. Is there something you were hoping to hear?”

“You weren’t going to tell me about your excursion to St Mungo’s this morning?” Snape asks, making Darcy blush. She can’t even be angry—she knows that Snape has people watching her, but had hoped he would allow her to go with Lupin and Emily without needing to be kept an eye on. “Dare I ask who it was you were visiting?”

“Katie Bell,” Darcy answers, trying to read him. It’s impossible. It’s almost always impossible. “I was curious.”

“And the fact that Cuffe asked you to break the story has absolutely nothing to do with this visit of yours?”

Darcy’s jaw clenches tight. “I thought it would be okay for me to leave with Remus. He’s there to watch out for me.”

“I don’t trust him,” Snape says, and it’s so blunt and tactless that Darcy’s temporarily struck dumb. “And I trust Duncan even less. You thought I would just allow you to go off into the center of London with them and no one else to protect you?”

The corners of her lips quirk upward. A crease appears between Snape’s eyebrows, and Darcy flushes when she notices his gaze lingering at her lips. “An honor guard,” she says, watching Snape’s eyebrow arch high in confusion. “You’re providing me an honor guard.”

His eyes snap back up to her own. “If you’d like to call it that to make yourself feel better . . .”

“It’s better to call it that than what it actually is. You’re spying on me.”

“I’m not spying,” Snape protests, but his cheeks color quickly at this accusation. It makes her think of the obvious discomfort Lupin had felt when confessing he’d been spying on her using the Marauder’s Map. “I’m trying to protect you. Why are you here?”

Darcy pauses, shrugging slightly. “I don’t know,” she answers truthfully. “I just thought . . . I just wanted to be here.”

She wants to ask him a million questions she knows she’ll never get real answers to: why do you tolerate me? why do you like me? why do you love me? why won’t you admit that you love me? are you ashamed? disgusted? heartbroken? why is it so hard for you to be kind to me? why won’t you be kind to Harry, or Remus? why won’t you allow yourself to love freely? why won’t you let others see you the way that I see you?

“You just . . . _wanted_ to be here?”

“I could leave, if you’d prefer me to.”

“Don’t you have a dinner to attend in Hogsmeade?”

“Later. Remus isn’t due back for another two hours. Lucky me, though, getting out of another Slug Club meeting. Surely you knew that, didn’t you?”

Snape looks thoroughly unamused by her comment. “I have work to do.”

“You won’t even notice that I’m here. Do you have a book?”

“I have many.”

Darcy smiles, planting both feet firmly on the ground. “Can I pick one?”

Snape tugs at the collar of his robes, clearing his throat. His cheeks turn pink. “I suppose . . .” He stands abruptly, startling her. “Come here.”

Curious, Darcy gets to her feet and follows Snape into his office. She immediately moves towards the bookshelf, trying to find a book that isn’t a Potions guide or some other kind of informative book, but before she can get too far, Snape calls her name and she whirls around again to find the door to his chambers wide open, and him standing in the threshold, looking far more nervous than she’s ever seen.

“Oh,” she says, feeling very stupid for saying it.

His anxiety suddenly becomes her anxiety. Darcy has never been inside his living space before, nor has she imagined much of it. It’s more intimate than she thought it would be, seeing his natural state, how he lives for the better part of a year. She holds his gaze as she crosses into his chambers, the first step being the hardest, but once fully inside, she gasps.

There are books upon books upon books. The shelves are packed tight, top to bottom. Stacks of them are placed by the sofa where she and Lupin once spent many evenings eating together and flirting carelessly and enjoying each other’s company. Some are books she’s never heard of by authors she’s never heard of, others that are about Potions and potion ingredients, even some poetry books, plays that sound like they’ve been written for witches and wizards. Darcy moves from one stack to another with excitement, until she comes upon one stack that has nearly twenty or so Muggle books. This strikes Darcy as odd, and she wonders how much information that Snape is willing to give her.

She looks over her shoulder at him, still standing at the doorway, wringing his hands in front of him as he watches her. “Was it your mother or your father?”

Snape mouths soundlessly for a moment. “Excuse me?”

“Was your father or your mother a Muggle?”

His face suddenly hardens, a former shell of the Professor Snape she used to know as a student. “Darcy . . .” he begins in a warning tone.

Darcy blushes. “Sorry. I was only curious.”

She turns back to the stack of Muggle books, tracing the spines with her index finger to pick one out. Before she can, however, Snape speaks again. “It was my father.”

She keeps her back to him, her heart speeding up within her chest. Snape has never given her such personal information, no matter how small, but she can’t believe she’s gotten an answer out of him. For a former Death Eater to confess to her that his father was a Muggle seems monumental, but she doesn’t want Snape to feel that it was a mistake to say such a thing.

“Did your father like to read?” she asks again.

Another beat, where she thinks Snape won’t answer. “He didn’t really like anything.”

She continues to look down at the books until his footsteps grow louder and closer, and he kneels beside her. Darcy finally turns her head to look at him. “Did he like you?”

Snape doesn’t answer, but Darcy knows the answer already. She’s more than familiar with what it feels like to live with a man who doesn’t want you, doesn’t like you, and she feels that maybe she’s finally found a way to connect with him. “No,” he says softly, determinedly not looking at her.

Darcy sighs. “Vernon always hated me. I don’t remember a time where he didn’t. He called me names all the time . . . he told me I was stupid and that I was a slut. I didn’t even know what the word meant when he started calling me it.” The memories are painful, but she wants Snape to know. “I remember the first time he hit me. I was seven, and Harry was crying . . . he was only three, so I let him in the bedroom to calm down, and he woke Dudley from his nap. Vernon was so mad at me that he hit me.”

Snape looks at her again carefully.

“Can I borrow this one?” she asks, pulling a book called _Jude the Obscure_.

“Yes.”

“Is it good?”

“I haven’t read it. You’ll have to let me know.”

Darcy smiles weakly at him. “I think I’m going to go back to my room now.”

“Are you all right?”

“Yes,” she says. Tucking the book under her arm, Darcy wraps her hand around Snape’s bicep for a moment, resting her cheek against his shoulder and feeling as if she’s about to cry. But she manages to hold the tears back, turning her head to leave a soft kiss on Snape’s shoulder.

Without another word from either of them, she leaves.

* * *

“I knew no one was going to know anything. What was the point of even coming here tonight?”

“To have a nice dinner with most of your favorite people,” Emily replies, patting Darcy’s hand across the table. “We’ll just have to wait until Katie wakes up, I guess, before we have the full story.”

“Did she tell you what kind of advice she’s giving next?” Lupin grins, elbowing Darcy in the side playfully.

“No,” Emily frowns. “What is it?”

Darcy can’t help but laugh. “I’m coaching some idiot girl through their first time fucking.”

Emily cackles loudly, slamming a fist on the table. “You should get the map out the night after it’s published, see who’s fucking in an empty broom closet. I want to know who it is.”

“You know,” Lupin says, smiling down at Darcy from her left, squeezing her knee beneath the table. “We didn’t make that map to _interrupt_ late night troublemaking sessions.”

“Did you or did you not interrupt _me_?” Darcy asks, making him snicker.

Lupin shrugs, completely unabashed about this direct accusation. “Different time, different circumstances. Completely warranted.”

“Regardless, I’m not half so cr—”

_BANG_!

All three of them jump as a heavy burlap bag slams onto the middle of the table. Overwhelmed by the smell of drink, even considering they’re all drinking with their dinners, Darcy is—at first—horrified at the sight that assaults her eyes.

Mundungus Fletcher—stringy and filthy and greasy—is afraid to meet her eyes. The scruff on his face seems to have been hacked at with a dull razor, and there are bruises on his face, a deep, untreated cut on his cheekbone, and another days old cut on his cracked lips. Keeping his bloodshot eyes fixed upon the sack, he clears his throat.

“S—sorry, Darcy, for stealing your stuff,” he slurs, and the words come out muffled due to his swollen bottom lip. “Won’t—won’t—happen again.”

Emily scoffs quietly as Mundungus limps away. “Doubt it,” she murmurs.

Darcy waits until Mundungus is gone before reaching for the sack, opening it just enough to see the silver within—goblets and platters and picture frames and cutlery.

“What did you do?” Lupin rasps in her ear, bewildered.

“Nothing,” she says, closing the sack and placing it gently by her feet, trying very hard to stifle her smile as she returns to her dinner.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m sorry! A bunch of people checked in on me to make sure I was okay, so I just want to let everyone know I’ve just been really busy and really sick 😹 I’m so sorry 😹😹

“This is unbelievable . . . I can’t believe I’m writing this . . . you have to _swear_ to me that you won’t read this article.”

“Why not?”

“It’s humiliating.” Darcy turns towards the bedroom from her place on the sofa. The only light in the bedroom is coming from the fire in the hearth and the lamp in the bathroom, where Lupin is. “I’m Darcy Potter, established writer for the _Daily Prophet_ and sworn enemy of the Ministry of Magic, and I’m writing some girl about how much it hurts to fuck a boy for the first time. But I think it adds to my _public persona_ , if you will, that I’m recommending they wait until marriage.”

“How much _does_ it hurt?” Lupin asks distractedly, his voice echoing in the tiny bathroom. “Just out of curiosity. I don’t know that I’d ever be comfortable asking anyone but you this question, so please answer honestly.”

“It shouldn’t hurt at all, if the other party is kind enough to prepare you,” Darcy answers, sighing as she finishes up her article with a blush on her cheeks. “If you are in need of any other sex advice, I’m going to have to refer you to _Witch Weekly_.”

“Why would I need to refer to _Witch Weekly_ when I have you, love?” he calls again from the bathroom. “Are you telling me that I could use some advice?”

Darcy brushes the feather of her quill against her lips, smiling. “Advice wouldn’t hurt. Or maybe it’s more practice you need.”

“We can start now, if you’d like.”

She looks up, his voice sounding much closer. At the sight of him walking into the living area, Darcy drops her quill and claps her hands to her mouth. “Oh, my God . . .” she giggles, unable to tear her eyes away from his cleanly shaven face. It seems years since she’s seen him without any facial hair at all, and though it makes him seem year’s younger and much less like someone who’s just returned from living among werewolves, Darcy thinks she much prefers the beard.

“What?” Lupin asks, frowning. He touches his cheeks, sitting on the sofa beside her. “You hate it.”

Darcy lowers her hands, shaking her head. “No,” she answers with a laugh and a fond smile, but her forceful and insistent tone is likely a dead giveaway. “No, I don’t. I swear.”

Lupin groans, hiding his pink face behind his hands, peeking at her through his fingers. “I wish you would have said something before I walked into the bathroom. I told you I was going to shave.”

Darcy laughs again, removing her things from her lap and setting them aside. She moves closer to him, wrapping her long fingers around his wrists and attempting to gently pull his hands away from his face. “I thought you meant like, a trim or something. I didn’t think you’d shave everything completely off.” He fights her for a moment. “Stop it—let me see your face.”

Slowly, Lupin lowers his hands, sighing heavily. “It was getting itchy,” he explains defensively. “I had to shave it.”

“I can finally see your mouth again,” she teases, moving into his lap and kissing him. Darcy’s fingertips ghost over his bare cheeks, her thumb brushing over his bottom lip before kissing him again. “I like it. I just needed to get over the initial shock of seeing you.”

“Oh, shut up, you.”

Lupin closes his eyes, hands settling on her hips, allowing her to shower his face with sweet kisses until Darcy’s sure her lips have touched every inch of skin on his face. When she finishes, he wraps his arms around her waist, holding her as close as she can get, their chests pressed together, noses almost touching.

“We’re not too bad at . . . practicing domesticity, don’t you think?” she asks, raking her fingers through his hair. “I think it quite suits us, this outdated dynamic.”

“All things considered . . . I have to agree.” Lupin sits up straighter, keeping her locked in his arms, and he kisses the crook of her neck before resting his head on the back of the sofa, a tired smile gracing his face. “And to think, nearly twenty years ago, I thought this impossible for a man like me. Oh—did I tell you? I saw a beautiful little house on my way here. I stopped in Perth to rest for a few hours, and you’ll never believe it . . . a house for sale—yellow, with a pretty garden, a white fence around the yard, right on the river.”

Darcy blushes, smiling. She looks down into her lap distractedly, touching the bite scar on his forearm with the lightest touch she can muster, glad he doesn’t even flinch. “You still want to live with me when the year ends?” she asks softly. “Really?”

“Of course I do,” Lupin replies, tilting her face up with a finger beneath her chin. “It’s not like it would be the first time. We lived together last year, too.”

Darcy cocks an eyebrow. “I don’t think that counts,” she reasons, and Lupin’s eyebrows are lifted nearly to his hairline. “Living _with_ someone and living under the same roof as someone are two completely different things.” When he gives her a skeptical, but teasing look, she nods gravely. “It’s true. Besides, you were hardly there.”

Lupin laughs to himself. “I’ll take your word for it. Far be it from me to argue against the word of someone so experienced in these things.” His eyes flick down to her lips for a split second, his smile flickering in an exhausted sort of way. “I’ve never lived with another woman before. Did you know that?”

Darcy isn’t surprised by this admission, but doesn’t want to make him feel any worse by asking _why_? “It may come as news to you, but I’ve never lived with another man before.” She rests her cheek against his shoulder, moving her head back and forth slightly to brush the tip of her nose against his neck. “I can’t wait to be a real family.”

“You already are my family, Darcy.”

The words steal her breath away. She has to take a moment to compose herself, sitting up straight. “And you’re mine.” Darcy lets the unspoken words hang there— _and Harry_ —but they don’t seem to discourage Lupin.

“Do you want to know another secret?” The pad of his thumb brushes over her chin and he kisses her lightly.

“Yes,” she breathes eagerly, grinning. Her heart pumps—every secret revealed to her makes her only love him more.

Lupin chortles. “I’d never fallen asleep with a woman after . . . you know. You were the first.”

Darcy’s heart skips another beat. Thirty-four-years-old, and never having stayed the night with a woman. “Was the wait worth it?”

“Absolutely,” Lupin answers without any trace of hesitation. His palms come to rest of her thighs.

“You were my first for that, as well. Not that you needed to hear me say it.” She blushes furiously. “I know I’m not as experienced as I sometimes pretend I am.”

“You’re perfect the way you are.”

This makes her blush even harder. “Do you know what I miss the most about you when you’re gone? Or one of the things, anyway.”

He bares his teeth in a goofy smile. “Go on.”

“Sleeping next to you,” she tells him, combing his hair back out of his eyes. “Waking from a nightmare and reaching for you, only to remember you’re gone. Waking in the morning by myself.”

Lupin’s smile fades, but his face is still sweet and tired. “I miss that, as well.”

Wondering how far she is able to go with this, Darcy makes herself ask him, “Are you still going to put a baby in me when summer comes?”

Lupin shudders, burying his face in her shoulder. There’s something sad about his answer, even as the back of one of his hands brushes against her stomach. “As many as you want.”

“I want a son,” she tells him, nipping at his neck as his hips buck slightly beneath her.

“And what would you name this son of ours?”

_Our son_. “James.” The answer comes to Darcy so quickly, so naturally. It rolls right off her tongue without even having to be thought of. It makes her sad to know she’ll never have a son to name after her father.

It even catches Lupin’s attention, who loosens his grip around her waist, lifting his head from her shoulder to look into her face. There’s nothing sad about the look he gives her then, a smile that tells Darcy he loves her, and that he may be—for quite possibly the first time— _genuinely_ interested in having children with her. “A fine name,” he says hoarsely, positively beaming.

Darcy swells with pride, draping her arms over his shoulders, wrapping them loosely around his neck. “You think so?”

“Yes.” He kisses her lightly. “I do.”

“I _really_ want children,” Darcy whispers in his ear, and she can feel him shudder beneath her again. The secret is on the tip of her tongue, her brain urging her to just tell him the truth (i can’t i can’t i can’t), but the rest of her pleads with her brain. As much as she trusts Lupin, Darcy feels she should come to terms with her own faults and failures before confessing to them. To muffle the sadness in her voice, she kisses up and down his neck, wordlessly reciting the typical prayer that comes to her whenever Lupin is inside of her—one that she could never admit to praying for—please let me have children, please, just one. “I really want a son.”

He kisses her deeply, without warning, hands holding her face, and he leaves by her breathless once again. “I know you do, my love,” Lupin rasps as he pulls away from her, tucking her hair behind her ears. “I’ve never forgotten, nor will I.”

“Do you?” she asks again, her smile fading slowly as her heart rate picks up. Suddenly she’s afraid to hear him speak, her throat dry. “Do you really want children?”

Lupin hesitates, clearing his throat. For a moment, he avoids her eyes, but then forces himself to look directly at her. “What if . . . they’re like . . . me?”

Darcy runs her fingers through his hair, just at his temples, where the gray is most prominent. She leaves a soft kiss there. “I would love them anyway.”

“How could I knowingly bring a child into this world, allowing them to suffer as I do?” he continues, and his tone is not one of anger or fear, but of complete loathing and self-disgust. It’s soft and wavering, desperate, utter honesty and vulnerability. “I can’t . . . I don’t know that I can do that.”

Darcy continues her ministrations, every so often watching her own milky white fingers mix with the brown and gray colors of his hair. “But what if they’re not like you?” she wonders outloud.

Lupin’s breath seems to hitch. He swallows loudly. “I don’t know that I would even know where to begin . . . I don’t know how to be a father, I never thought . . . I never considered the possibility that . . .”

“Why would you think that?” Darcy looks down upon him, feeling utterly powerful in this position, trapping him beneath her on the sofa, looking down into his face, speaking words of reassurance and praise as he has to her so many times before. “You’re kind and compassionate, warm and funny and loving. Isn’t that what fathers are supposed to be?”

He blushes sweetly, looking away from her, to the half-concealed scars on her shoulder. “Do you really want some . . . poor, old man to put a child in you?”

Darcy smiles, shaking her head. “Not some poor, old man,” she whispers. “ _You_.”

He smiles back at her then, but only for a heartbeat before it falls. Lupin’s eyes are sad, heavy with the weight of what is likely going to come out of his mouth. His hands touch her upper arms, and he inhales a shaky breath. “I’m going to be completely honest with you right now,” he tells her in a soft and shameful voice, his eyes darting back down to his shoulder. “I don’t think I’m . . . I can’t . . . I can’t . . .” His eyes close. “It would have happened by now. I can’t.”

_He thinks it’s him_. Darcy feels a surge of affection for Lupin, so in love with him that it hurts. She feels so sorry for him in that instant. Does he know it’s him for certain? Either way, the way his eyes stay closed, as if he can’t bear to look at her after such a shameful and painful admission, breaks her. Does he think it means she won’t want him anymore? Does he think she’ll hate him—resent him? The thought only makes Darcy love him more—that Remus could ever believe he’s not good enough for her is laughable to her. _He’s perfect_ , she thinks, _even if we never have a child in our lives._

_Let me live out the rest of my life with him_ , she prays. _As long as it’s with him, I’ll be happy. God, please. Let it be him._

“I love you so much,” Darcy gasps, and Lupin’s eyes snap open. She leans down to kiss his face, everywhere her lips can reach, peppering his cheeks and nose and forehead and lips and chin with the softest, featherlight kisses. “I love you—so, _so_ much . . .”

“I’m so sorry, Darcy,” he rasps, his voice hoarse as if from years of disuse. His arms wrap around her waist, holding her tight to the front of his body as he buries his face into the crook of her neck. “I’m so sorry . . .”

“I don’t care,” she says truthfully. _Should I tell him it’s me? What if it’s not him?_

But what if it is him?

“Remus,” Darcy whispers, nuzzling into his hair. “I don’t care.” She holds him for a moment, breathing rather heavily. “I’m yours.”

“Darcy,” he croaks, voice muffled by her skin. “I need to ask you something.”

Her heart stops, leaving her winded. “What is it?”

There’s a long beat that follows that tells Darcy what he’s going to ask isn’t going to be what he originally planned to ask, and it breaks her heart.

“Can I take you to bed?”

Darcy swallows hard, attempting to breathe again. Regaining what is left of her seemingly shattered dignity, she sits up straight and kisses his head quickly, trying not to let Lupin see the tears in her eyes as he lifts his head. “I have work to finish,” she says. “Read to me while I finish. Just like I used to do for you.”

Slowly, Lupin regains a smile. “Days long past.”

“Easier times,” Darcy replies, kissing his lips. “Happier times.” She remembers those days fondly, as if they were hundreds of years ago, different lifetimes. “‘Is there aught else in all the world beside? Is not time stilled and ended in this hour?’”

“One day, we’ll have all the time in the world.”

“You believe that?”

“Yes,” he says. “I do.”

“Promise me you’ll come back to me.”

“Always.”

* * *

“It was weird, like . . . looking him in the face like that, knowing what he was going to become . . .” Harry chews his food thoughtfully, looking troubled. He’s hardly touched anything on his plate, likely because it’s gone lukewarm while they’ve been talking. “The lady from the orphanage said that he hung someone’s rabbit from the rafters.”

“That doesn’t surprise me in the slightest,” Darcy says, her mouth full of food as she opens her bottle of butterbeer. “This is Voldemort we’re talking about. What would really surprise me is, like . . . if he volunteered at a local shelter to eliminate poverty and homelessness or something.”

“I wish you could have been there with me,” he sighs, frowning. He sets his fork and knife down, looking awfully guilty as he shifts in his seat. Resentment bubbles in Darcy’s stomach, but not resentment aimed towards Harry—instead, towards Dumbledore, who hadn’t even bothered to ask if she’d like to join them. “It was so strange. Apparently he did something to two other kids that no one could explain, and he was even using magic to control animals or . . . hurt people, if he wanted to.”

“All right,” Darcy answers warily, checking her watch. Harry had described Dumbledore’s memory in such meticulous detail, in between stuffing his face with food in order to finish before class starts again. He had painted a vivid scene of a dull and dreary orphanage, where a young Dumbledore had gone to visit an even younger Tom Riddle, a Tom Riddle that made the staff and other children uncomfortable, a friendless boy who was inclined towards secrecy and cruelty. He tells her how Dumbledore had lit Tom’s wardrobe on fire in order to prove he was who he said he was, how Tom’s collection of stolen items rattled and made themselves known to him, how Tom had attempted to impress with his confession of being a Parselmouth.

Darcy hadn’t given much thought to a young Lord Voldemort before—younger than when she’d seen his memory in the Chamber of Secrets, anyway—but she thinks that Harry’s description is exactly what she’d expect.

“Tell me what Dumbledore said, before lunch ends,” she tells Harry.

“Okay, so Voldemort hated the name ‘Tom’, because it was so plain and so many people had it.” Harry raises his eyebrows as if to prove a point, but if he’s made one, it’s lost on Darcy. She merely shrugs, gesturing for him to continue. “He wanted to be different, and that’s why he calls him Lord Voldemort now. Someone says Voldemort and there’s no doubt as to who you’re talking about.”

“Okay . . .” Darcy narrows her eyes, wondering how that piece of information could possibly ever help them in the years, months, or days to come. “And?”

Looking affronted that Darcy hasn’t taken a great interest in his last news, Harry plows on regardless. “Dumbledore had offered to go with Voldemort to Diagon Alley, but Voldemort refused. He wanted to go on his own, and he hasn’t changed. Dumbledore reckons that Voldemort has never had a friend, nor does he want one—not even among his Death Eaters.”

This piece of information is slightly more interesting to her. “What a sad life, to never have a friend,” Darcy ponders outloud. There’s no doubt in her mind that she wouldn’t have survived this long without friends, but then again, she isn’t Lord Voldemort. “So what you’re saying is, it’s highly unlikely that Voldemort confides in any of his Death Eaters?”

“It doesn’t seem likely at all,” Harry adds, speaking more quickly. He’s always gotten excited easily, and though the subject matter is dark, Darcy finds it easy to smile while looking upon his face. “So I’m sure he never told anyone that his father was a Muggle . . . kind of destroys his image, don’t you think?”

“Anything else?”

“Yeah, Dumbledore said I should remember that Voldemort likes to collect things . . . like little treasures, I guess. And that’s it, but . . .” Harry pauses, thinking for a moment. “Last time, he had a ring on this table. The same ring that Marvolo Gaunt was wearing in the first memory. And this time, it wasn’t there. So I asked about it, and about something else that Voldemort had stolen in the memory.”

Darcy leans forward, intrigued. “What was it?”

“I expected him to have something else. I asked about a mouth organ I’d seen, and Dumbledore said something really . . . cryptic, I guess.”

“And that’s different for Dumbledore? Professor Dumbledore, who only ever gives information with ominous and cryptic riddles?”

Harry pauses with his fork in mid-air to give her an exasperated look. Their own personal feelings towards Dumbledore have always divided them slightly. “He said the mouth organ was only ever a mouth organ.”

Darcy dwells on this for a moment. She and Harry hadn’t been wrong—it is both cryptic and ominous. And it also doesn’t make sense. What could Voldemort have done with his belongings? Transfigured them? Turned them into Portkeys? “Did you ask him anything about Katie Bell, or did he say anything? I haven’t a chance to see him yet.”

“St Mungo’s is sending him hourly reports, and Katie is stable.” Harry gives an aggrieved sigh, as if this is absolutely terribly news. It takes Darcy slightly aback until he continues. “I asked if he’d done anything about Malfoy, and he—”

“ _Harry_!”

Harry blushes. “What?” he snaps, stabbing moodily at a potato. “If Malfoy wasn’t involved, then he shouldn’t mind being investigated.”

“I think you’re being too hard on Malfoy,” Darcy says gently, hoping to keep the beast from reading its ugly head now. Harry doesn’t answer, which is good enough for her. It’s not like she has a soft spot for Malfoy, but maybe Harry has been targeting him . . . and the last thing Malfoy needs is to be accused of a serious crime he didn’t commit . . . or so says Lupin, and Darcy has to admit he’d made a few good points.

“He knows about Mundungus, stealing our stuff, you know.”

Darcy chokes on her butterbeer, spilling it down the front of her shirt and coughing obnoxiously. Harry watches her with an annoyed and slightly disgusted expression on his face. “What did he say?” she asks, trying to sound casual.

Harry narrows his eyes. “He said it wouldn’t happen again. What’s going on? Did you do something?”

“No.”

He doesn’t look fully convinced, but thankfully doesn’t press the subject. “Hermione said you didn’t go to Slughorn’s party last night.”

“No, I was busy,” Darcy answers, raising her eyebrows and stuffing a piece of broccoli into her mouth. “I had a lot of work to do.”

“I don’t think I’m going to be so lucky next time,” Harry groans. “Slughorn’s making sure the next date won’t interfere with anything in my schedule.”

“Lucky for me, I can just use the _Daily Prophet_ as my cover. He’ll understand.”

“Hermione says he’s having a Christmas party. You can invite people.”

Darcy finds Harry watching her almost too closely. It makes her nervous. “Okay,” she says slowly, trying to shake off her brother’s gaze. “Well, if Remus isn’t here, then likely I’ll go by myself or not at all. Why are you looking at me like that? Stop it.”

The words spill out of him almost without any thought behind them. “What do you think about Ron and Hermione?”

“I . . .” She lowers her napkin from her mouth, shrugging innocently. “I think they’re wonderful. You know I like them, Harry.”

“No, I mean . . . Ron _and_ Hermione.”

It takes her a minute, but she gets it eventually, eyes going wide as dinner plates, lips forming the perfect ‘o’. Darcy remembers Hermione coming back to her room after Ginny had gone ahead to Gryffindor Tower, embarrassed to ask a question about she and Lupin. A question about the state of their friendship outside of a relationship. “Do they fancy each other?” Darcy whispers, unsure of why this is her first instinct. She can’t help it, maybe—this is big gossip.

“I don’t know . . .” Harry rubs the back of his neck, chewing the inside of his mouth. “I mean, I think so . . . maybe . . .”

“They’re your friends. How do you feel?”

“I don’t know. I don’t want things to be for them like they are for me and Cho now,” he explains, in what seems to be relief that Darcy hasn’t rebuffed his question. “And . . . if they’re not, what if they’re like Bill and Fleur?”

Darcy laughs, trying to imagine it. She knows Hermione would never. “Look, I know how you feel. But they’re your best friends in the world, and . . . think of it like this. When Remus and I weren’t together, we still were able to get along—” (most times)—“because of you. We love you, and we would never stop because of whatever happens between us.”

“You and Remus aren’t Hermione and Ron.”

“No, we’re not, thank God,” Darcy chuckles, soliciting a laugh from Harry, as well. “You’ll just have to see how it plays out.” She smiles to herself as Harry looks back down at his plate, checking his watch and beginning to wolf down more of his food. “Anyone special caught your eye, little brother?”

“Don’t ask me that,” he grumbles, cheeks pink, very much her little brother in that moment.

“Not like you’d tell me, anyway, right?” she teases. “You were so reluctant to tell me about your kiss with Cho—”

“Shut it, Darcy,” Harry retorts coldly, flushing still more pink.

“Oh, come on, Harry.” Darcy kicks his foot playfully beneath the small table. “It can’t be any worse than kissing your teacher.”

“I just knew you’d make a big deal out of it,” he replies sheepishly, growing more irritated than embarrassed. “I know I haven’t . . . done as much as you have when you were my age . . .”

“You get a free pass. You’ve been pretty busy every year,” Darcy says. “Though, If I’d been drafted for the Triwizard Tournament, I’d likely have become a full blown alcoholic.”

Harry scoffs, shrinking slightly, ever modest. “There were times it didn’t seem to bad . . .” he confesses with a lopsided grin.

Darcy takes a moment to really look at him for a moment. Just as with Hermione, there’s still an innocence behind Harry’s eyes that does not reflect the world in which he lives, nor the situation he’s been put in. Sure, Sirius’ death and the learning of the prophecy has made him look slightly older, more hardened, but not as with herself. She had become bitter and jaded long ago, long before sixth year.

Her first drink had been at the tender age of fourteen, and it hadn’t even been for fun—it had been to numb, always to numb. Darcy doesn’t even think Harry has considered alcohol much at all. When she had picked up the bad habit of smoking cigarettes, Harry had never been tempted to touch one. Darcy had wrapped herself in a blanket of self-loathing, relying on things like sex to carry her to a new high, only to come down again by the next party, and the vicious cycle had continued.

And no one had ever said a word to her. Not even Emily, who’d encouraged Darcy’s habits and addictions as much as her other friends, never fully realizing the extent of her helplessness against things like firewhisky and the need for gratuitous sex with a boy she didn’t even love.

How sad to think of the position she’d been in at Harry’s age. The Chamber of Secrets and all the adventures and mishaps that came along with it had shaken her, solidified the feeling of fear as a constant part of her. And the only way Darcy knew how to subdue that fear was through things that would mute it, if only for a few hours, sometimes only for a few minutes.

“How do you do it, Harry?” she asks him then, wondering how a boy such as her brother could possibly make it through such a hard life without some kind of crutch.

Harry thinks. He shrugs. “I had you.”

Darcy freezes, a hand wraps around her throat, she can’t speak. Instead, she reaches out across the round table, placing her hand over top of Harry’s and squeezing gently. If she could find her voice, she’d tell him she loves him, and that she can’t believe she’d ever resented him, and that she’d do anything for him, she’d die for him or kill for him, because without him she’d lose the last part of herself that she likes, that she admires, that she values, that is good.

It’s hard to express that in a simple hand gesture, she thinks, but she’s also sure Harry doesn’t need to hear it spoken outloud to understand.

* * *

Darcy becomes an instant celebrity after the _Prophet_ publishes the story of Katie Bell (Darcy had left her name out completely, instead referring to her as an unfortunate victim, a student from Hogwarts, but of course everyone knew who it was). Some people are glad that she’s published it, happy that she’s bringing attention to the frightening things happening so close to the school. Others, however, think Darcy’s done nothing but exploit Katie for personal gain, for more pull within the _Daily Prophet_. Suddenly people either respect her or hate her, and it’s a very chilling effect. Not only that, but most people who see the article about Katie in a negative light also taken to laughing at her advice article, making her blush furiously when the whispers start up again about her sleeping with her teacher.

It leaves Darcy feeling lonely and doubtful about her line of work with the _Prophet_ , despite Lupin’s constant reassurances that both articles were very good.

Thursday night, Dumbledore interrupts Darcy and Lupin’s fireside dinner before they’ve even eating, asking Darcy for a private word with Lupin. Disappointed and slightly angry, Darcy feel she has no choice but to answer, “Of course, Professor.”

Lupin gives her an apologetic smile, kissing her cheek as he makes to stand up.

“I know you were looking forward to a splendid dinner,” Dumbledore tells her as Lupin reaches the door. Darcy keeps her back to him. “But Mr. Cuffe is currently visiting in Hogsmeade, and has sent a message requesting your presence in the Three Broomsticks for dinner, if you were interested.”

Darcy inhales deeply, rubbing her temples. “Sure.”

The Three Broomsticks is, as ever, overcrowded and smoky. Darcy lights a cigarette the moment she walks in the door, stripping out of her winter gear and trying to find Cuffe among the crowd. He’s seated by the wide, frosty window at the front of the pub, close enough to the roaring fire in order to still feel somewhat warm. Though the view from the window is pitch black, Cuffe is staring out of it, deep in thought, even as Darcy takes the empty seat across from him.

He hardly gives any sign he’s realized she’s sitting down with him. “I didn’t think you’d come,” he says, turning back to face her after a minute or two. “I didn’t order you anything. What are you having? I’ve got some of that leek and potato soup coming out for myself. Cold night.”

“Soup is fine,” Darcy answers quietly—or, as quietly as she can over the buzz of conversation around them. “I wouldn’t have come if Professor Dumbledore hadn’t interrupted the dinner I was going to have with Remus.”

“I wouldn’t have held it against you if you didn’t come.” Cuffe holds up a hand to signal a passing server, asking him for a second order of soup.

Though Cuffe doesn’t speak much, taking more interest in people watching than conversing with her, there’s a comfort to the silence between them. He orders her a drink, and they eat in silence for a little, all while Cuffe sniffs and coughs and sighs and looks at every single person in the pub over and over again.

Darcy glances up from her soup. Since the night he’d shown up unannounced, Darcy has been hoping for some form of meeting. She can’t help but to like him—the uncouth exterior, the softer side he’d shown her. Despite being the reason all the nasty articles had been published about she and Harry and everyone else, Darcy doesn’t think Cuffe has anything against her personally. Can she blame him for doing it to succeed? To be read? To earn money? After all, he’s trying to help her . . . offered her a decent job, has given her decent pay and advice, offered her a way out with no strings attached.

But Darcy’s not a fool anymore. She knows herself far too well by now to not know how this will go.

(a man shows Darcy an ounce of affection and she clings to him)

_That’s not true._

But she wants to trust him so badly, to like him, to befriend him, to be cared about.

Finally, she leans forward slightly, and Cuffe looks at her sideways with a raised eyebrow, swallowing his soup. “People hate me because of the article I wrote.”

“Of course they do,” Cuffe laughs. “You’re never going to write something that will make everyone happy.”

“They think I’m stupid for writing back to that girl.” Darcy grasps her spoon so firmly that her knuckles turn white. “It was a stupid article.”

“It was a stupid fucking question. Your answer was fine,” Cuffe replies, holding up a lazy hand to keep her from protesting. “Your answer adhered to the same standard as your answers to any other questions, despite the . . . subject matter.” He grins crookedly when he sees Darcy continuing to frown. “I knew this was going to fucking happen.”

“Knew what was going to happen?”

“Potter, if I can guess two things about you—and get them correct—what will you give me?”

“Nothing,” Darcy hisses over her soup. “And you don’t know anything about me.”

“You’re probably really emotional, aren’t you?” Cuffe asks, brushing off her response as if she hadn’t spoken at all. “Probably cry a lot, don’t you?”

Darcy doesn’t give him an answer. But she blushes, and that’s answer enough for him. The corners of his lips quirk upwards. She hates herself in that moment for how quickly her body betrays her emotions, like she doesn’t even have any control over it. She wishes she could be like Snape—completely unreadable, but able to read everyone in turn. His expressions never give his emotions or thoughts away unless he allows himself too, like when he’s with her, or when his anger flares in class.

“And I’d bet ten Galleons that your anger is something to behold, probably because you take everything so personally,” Cuffe continues, leaning back in his seat. “Is that true?”

Darcy tries to keep her face as impassive as possible. “I guess so.”

“Stop taking everything so fucking personally, then,” Cuffe says. “If you want to be a journalist, you can’t listen to everyone’s opinion, unless you want to get riled up every time.” He spoons more of the creamy, white soup into his mouth. Some of it dribbles down his chin, but he catches it with a napkin before it gets too far. “I know you didn’t tell Horace to stop sending in fucking letters because I’m still getting them. But I did get an invitation to his little Christmas party.”

“You’re coming?” Darcy asks, cringing at the sound of excitement in her voice that she knows Cuffe picks up on.

“You’d like that, would you?” he chuckles, making her feel small and childlike and embarrassed. “Maybe. That boy of yours going to go?”

“I don’t know yet,” she answers, trying to be as truthful as possible. “He’s been doing a lot of traveling lately, and anyway, I don’t really think he’s fond of events like that.”

“No, I shouldn’t think so.” Cuffe sighs heavily. “What do you look so fucking glum for, Potter? I thought you’d be a nice dinner companion, and you’re making me depressed.”

“I told you, people hate me.”

“People hated you for a lot longer than that,” he says abruptly, and Darcy opens her mouth again to protest, but he holds up his hand once more. “People hate me, too. No one goes through life not being hated by at least one person. But you know what I say?”

“What?” Darcy asks flatly, stirring her soup around.

“I say, fuck them. People who hate . . . they are envious and jealous and bitter and insecure. I learned to stop caring a long time ago, when I was even older than you. You stop caring now, at your age . . .” Cuffe scoffs. “Life will be a lot easier for you.” He smiles, laughing darkly to himself. “You hated me when we first met, didn’t you?”

“Not really,” Darcy admits. “But I thought you were kind of an arsehole.”

Barnabas Cuffe throws back his head and laughs, and his whole body shakes with his laughter. “An accurate assessment, I think,” he says, this time sighing contently. “Your friend, Duncan, is a brat, you know. Thinks she’s entitled to everything, doesn’t she?”

He looks at Darcy as if expecting her to disagree, but instead she says, “Well, she is. And she does.”

Cuffe snorts. “You want to know what I thought of you when I walked in here that day?” Darcy shrugs. “I thought you were a fucking princess. Thought you were going to be the bane of my fucking existence.”

Darcy can’t help but to laugh softly, her heart fluttering. It’s not half as bad as she imagined Cuffe meant for it to come across. “People have called me a lot of things, but never a princess.” She takes a long drink of her mead. “I think I rather prefer it to some of the other things I’ve been called. Though, I was a princess for a Halloween Party fifth year.”

“Dare I ask what Duncan was dressed as?”

“Joan of Arc.”

“Of course she was.” He lifts his tankard, full of what Darcy knows to be just plain water. “To Princess Potter.”

She brings her own cup to his, clinking them together before drinking. It almost reminds her of days spent with Ludo Bagman, except this time, the memory of him doesn’t make her so sad.

Friday is when the realization sets in, and the tears. It sinks in when Darcy is in the bath one night, mentally planning her weekend with Lupin and her friends, and Darcy sobs so loudly and suddenly that Lupin nearly knocks down the bathroom door seconds later, bursting in wide-eyed, panting, and with his wand out.

“What’s wrong?” he gasps, tucking his wand away and kneeling beside her with a speed unimagined from him. “Why are you crying? What happened?”

“I’ve just remembered you’re leaving Monday,” she confesses tearfully, probably looking ridiculous with bubbles all over her chin and in her hair like some soapy beard and wig.

Lupin pauses, but after a moment of letting her words sink in, smiles adoringly at her. “I’m still yours for a few more days.”

Soaking wet, Darcy raises herself onto her knees, wrapping her arms around his neck and dripping all over his clothes. “But you can’t leave,” she tells him, holding him tight. “You _can’t_ —you can’t leave me.”

His arms slide around her, warm hands pressed against her back, sending chills shooting down her spine and making her shiver. “I’ll come back,” he says, stroking her hair for a moment before kissing her forehead and pulling away, looking down to examine his wet clothing. “We’ll think about it later. I’m not ready to worry just yet.”

Friday night is also when Dumbledore calls on Darcy for a private word. She takes the spiral staircase up to his office with her hair still wet from a bath, and a little stiff from the chill air in the corridors. She isn’t dressed very properly for a visit with the Headmaster, but she tells herself that nine o’clock is quite late anyway, and at least she’s wearing sweatpants instead of the pink and flowery sleeping shorts she favors. She hadn’t even bothered to don real shoes—instead choosing the fur lined boots she’d bought to get her through the many walks to and from Hogsmeade during the winter.

Upon entering Dumbledore’s office, he immediately smiles and offers her a cup of hot cocoa. He pours a mug full for himself, even putting far more marshmallows in than she’s ever seen an old man need. He does the same for her, though, so she doesn’t say anything. She isn’t an old man, so the marshmallows are more than welcome.

“You have been busy while I’ve been gone,” Dumbledore says, not unkindly, sipping from his mug and smacking his lips. It makes Darcy uncomfortable, like it’s some strange attempt to sink to her level, to make himself seem more likeable. “The _Prophet’s_ newest writer . . . and I have no doubt that Remus has been keeping you busy, as well.”

Darcy blushes, though she’s sure Dumbledore meant nothing by it. “We truly appreciate you allowing Remus to stay here. It’s . . . a dream to have him back and be able to be with me.”

“It’s not as if Hogwarts is lacking for room for one more person,” he answers. “I have just a few things to say to you tonight and then you may return to him.” Dumbledore’s eyes seem to see right through her, and it makes her squirm. “Firstly, I would like to address an incident that has deeply saddened me with the way it has been handled.”

She doesn’t look away from him.

“I have given Professor Snape this very same speech, Darcy, but I fear my message will not reach your ears if it is left up to him,” he begins again. There’s a long pause, during which Dumbledore regards her coolly. “Regardless of what Mundungus Fletcher has done to you, I will not have teachers of my school commit petty acts of violence to solve their problems, especially not in front of three students. You should have come to me about Mundungus.”

Darcy almost laughs—almost—before remembering who it is she’s sitting in front of. She pushes her mug away from her, sending him a message of her own. “Forgive me, sir, but you weren’t here to tell. Mundungus likely would have sold everything by the time I had the chance to speak with you.”

“The fault does not entirely rest with you. Please do not think I blame you for the state I last saw Mundungus in.” Dumbledore sighs exasperatedly, and Darcy almost feels sorry for him. “But the display you put on for Harry and your friends, and the threats you issued—as a bluff or no—were by no means warranted, and I will not stand for another episode such as that.”

“Yes, sir.” Her words are forced, not genuine in the slightest, only meant to appease him.

“And I have heard rumors from the Minister himself that I would like to dispel . . . something about a meeting with Cornelius Fudge, and—”

“It’s true. It’s all true.” Darcy won’t back down from this. She isn’t ashamed in the slightest of what she said to Fudge. “I told him I would rather see the Ministry burn than work with them.”

“And yet, you’ve decided to work for the _Daily Prophet_ ,” Dumbledore finishes, acting as though she hadn’t just interrupted him. “Which, as you know, is mainly under the Ministry’s influence.”

“I only write for the advice column. I’m not working directly for or with the Ministry, nor would I ever.”

“Why?”

The question ignites a fire in her. Why do people have to question every little thing she does? Why can’t she enjoy things for the sake of enjoying things, without being belittled or ridiculed or doubted? “Because I enjoy it. Because—despite everything—I enjoy working for Barnabas Cuffe. People write to me . . . they appreciate me, and respect me, and enjoy my advice. Don’t I deserve that?” Darcy asks, a frown on her face that she desperately hopes doesn’t turn into a full blown scowl.

“If this is how you would speak to me, Darcy, then perhaps we should meet another night when your anger has abated—”

But the prospect of coming back another day to have this same conversation doesn’t appeal to her in the slightest. Darcy knows that her anger will not abate by the end of the night—only when her questions are answered truthfully, and maybe not even then. “Why won’t you let me join you and Harry during his lessons?”

Dumbledore purses his lips, lightly fingering the handle of his mug. “Hasn’t Harry been telling you about what he’s been learning?”

“He has,” Darcy responds coldly. “But I don’t understand why I cannot be apart of these lessons if it’s not because I’m not allowed to know the contents of the lessons.”

When Dumbledore doesn’t answer right away, she fumes.

“I’m his _sister_ ,” she protests loudly, much to the disapproval of the portraits on the walls. Thankfully, Phineas is missing, likely at Grimmauld Place, either at his own doing or Dumbledore’s, it makes no matter to her. “I’m as much a part of this as Harry. I’ve always been a part of this as much as Harry, and you’ve never understood that.”

“I understand that you’re angry, and I understand why—”

“No, you don’t!” Darcy shouts, and the silence that follows is near painful. “You don’t understand, and you’ve never understood.”

“I understand better than you think.” Dumbledore steeples his hands together, closing his watery eyes for a moment. He is quiet for a long time, and then says, “Let us take a walk, Darcy. There is something I wish to tell you.”

Darcy falters, growing silent, looking around at the curious faces of previous headmasters and headmistresses. Dumbledore gets to his feet, and Darcy follows suit. As soon as they set foot out of his office, Darcy feels a weight off her shoulders. She’s always hated the way other people could listen to her conversations with Dumbledore, hated the feeling of painted eyes upon her while doing her best to ignore them. It seems whatever Dumbledore is going to tell her will be very private, and her heart leaps in her throat at the prospect of hearing something so private that not even the portraits will hear.

She follows him blindly up several sets of steps, often helping Dumbledore along, allowing him to hold onto her arm with his good hand. She wonders if she’s finally going to hear the story of what happened to his other hand, still charred looking. Darcy doesn’t fail to notice, however, the way he breathes very heavily when they reach the sixth floor ( _where is he leading me_?), the way his pace slows eventually as they go up yet another staircase that’s just finished moving into place. It’s then she realizes that Dumbledore—seemingly immortal and capable—is only an old man, hardly fit enough to climb to the highest tower of his own castle. That simple flaw gives Darcy a surge of perverted pleasure, to know that Dumbledore isn’t infallible, and it doesn’t make her a bad person for disliking him most of the time. And yet she can’t help but find herself thinking—how much longer until he goes senile? How much longer will he be Headmaster?

It doesn’t really bother her, the thought of a new Headmaster. After all, Darcy has absolutely no intention of returning to Hogwarts next year, especially not as Slughorn’s assistant. Perhaps it would be different if she was offered a place at Snape’s side again, or if she were offered an actual teaching position—but there is no future for her here under current circumstances. Maybe it’s why she’s decided to write for the _Prophet_. Regardless, the only sure future Darcy knows is the one that awaits her with Lupin at the end of the school year, and that prospect is far more appealing than an assistant job.

It isn’t until they reach the seventh floor that Darcy realizes where they are. In front of a blank stretch of wall, she turns to Dumbledore. “We’re going into the Room of Requirement.”

“Yes,” Dumbledore says softly. “We are.”

Darcy holds her breath, wondering what will await her on the other side. She watches him walk by the wall three times, looking exhausted from the walk up from his office. A small door appears in the wall—nothing grand or elaborate, but a plain, wooden door, much like that to a classroom. She recalls quickly the only time she’d ever seen the room in its glory . . . once a place where she and her brother had taught secret Defense lessons against Umbridge’s and the Ministry’s wishes. When she steps through the doorway this time, there is no dueling space. The room is changed—drastically.

The ceiling seems much taller than she knows possible, and there is little light that seeps in through cracks in the walls and from the tip of Dumbledore’s wand, until he flicks his wand, and suddenly the light is everywhere, no brighter than firelight all along the walls, illuminating the scene before her. This room is far bigger than it had been for she and the D.A., and far more filled with things. Things everywhere, stacked in rows that seem like roads, the entire place seeming like a city of junk. Old books and antiques, broken mirrors and furniture, broomsticks and wardrobes, everything imaginable is piled here—long forgotten and hidden away from the majority of the school and magical citizens. Everything seems covered with a thin film of dust, untouched for years—maybe, by the look of some things, _centuries_. She could get lost here and no one would ever be able to find her. It’s a place that, according to the Marauder’s Map, her father and his friends had never discovered or even known about.

The magic of the Room of Requirement had apparently been lost on her during the days of D.A. meetings. Back then, it had been nothing more than a secret room to her, a safe haven where they could talk freely and perform otherwise forbidden magic. It had been a place of friendship, a place of solidarity against a common enemy—Dolores Umbridge. Back then, Darcy hadn’t even stopped to consider the possibilities, the history and magic behind the room. It is no longer just a room, but a place where hundreds—perhaps thousands—of people had walked the same path as Darcy did, maybe wondering if anyone would walk the same path after them. Every single thing in here is connected to someone, a story behind the piles of junk that line the narrow walkway, leading to another intersection.

Dumbledore seems to know exactly where he’s going. With his eyes straight ahead, focused on their immediate destination, Darcy follows quietly, her curiosity growing with every step she takes, her footsteps muffled by the dust at her feet. He takes turn after turn, as if the route is memorized. He takes her by old portraits that look burned and scratched and half-destroyed, cracked crystal balls and weepy looking bookshelves threatening to collapse on them. As Dumbledore makes to turn left at the end of an aisle, Darcy looks right and catches a glimpse of an ugly old bust, with a beautiful tiara atop it that makes the scars on her shoulder throb angrily, but she ignores it, following the old man leading her deeper into the maze.

“It’s just over here, I think,” Dumbledore says after another sharp and abrupt turn right.

“Sir, what are we doing here?” Darcy asks, frowning. The room emits a slightly more ominous feeling the deeper they get.

“You think I do not understand,” he answers, somewhat gently. She trails slightly behind, unable to get a clear view of his face. “I am here to tell you that I do understand. Here it is . . .”

Darcy catches up to him as he stops, freezing in her tracks at what is set in front of her. Dusty and grimy, the frame looking tarnished, is—without a doubt—the Mirror of Erised. She’s standing just at the proper angle to be looking at Dumbledore’s reflection instead of her own, and he looks into it sadly for a moment before cleaning the cobwebs off the glass with his healthy hand almost lazily. Her heart begins to race, her stomach churning, droplets of cold sweat forming at her hairline, the back of her neck.

Dumbledore turns to face her, his hands held behind his back. “Did you know that I had a sister? And a brother?”

“No,” she says, unsure of how to feel about his confession. It is so blunt and uncharacteristic of him, and she feels trapped in a very uncomfortable and intimate situation. “I didn’t.”

“Much like you, I was tasked with being the head of household . . . though, I was much older than you were when you were forced into it.” Dumbledore glances back towards the mirror, only for a heartbeat. It seems to shame him. “And unlike your relationship with Harry, mine was strained with my brother. We never saw eye to eye . . . I was cleverer and more successful . . . and my sister . . .” The pause that follows is too long. “She was sick.”

(he’s lying)

The thought comes so quickly and naturally to Darcy that it surprises her. It shames her, and she doesn’t want to believe it. What could he possibly have to lie about?

But when has Dumbledore ever been open and so boldly honest? Always hiding things . . . the prophecy, keeping her away from Order meetings, the reason Harry couldn’t leave Privet Drive with her, the reason she was at Hogwarts . . .

“Do you think I do not understand the choice?” Dumbledore asks her, almost sounding pained. “The choice between family and desire? I understand it more than you will ever know . . . you forget that an old man such as myself was once young, forced to make difficult choices, forced to live with the choice for the rest of my life . . .

“I was unable to commit to my decision, to my family, to my sister . . .” Dumbledore sighs heavily, and Darcy catches sight of a tear slip down into his silvery beard. “As clever as I was, at that age I lacked the unwavering devotion you possessed at the mere young of five.” He inhales deeply, the every single wrinkle on his old face prevalent in the lighting. “Do you think I look down on you, and that is why I do not include you?”

Darcy looks up into his face. “You treat me like a child.”

“In many ways, you still are, though you are older than Harry. There are things you have never seen, or done, or learned.” Dumbledore matches her gaze, unwilling to look away. “And yet you have the resolve and steadfast loyalty of a woman twice your age. You have always chosen Harry, over everything, even when your desires have been within your reach . . . attainable . . .”

“What happened to your brother and sister, sir?” Darcy asks, raising an eyebrow and looking towards the mirror. If she just moved a few steps to her left, she’d be able to see herself . . . see her heart’s greatest desire . . .

“My sister died,” he tells her. “And my brother . . . we are still friendly, though not as much as I wish we could be . . .” Dumbledore watches Darcy inch closer to looking in the mirror. “When you looked into the mirror all those years ago, you saw your family, and do you remember what I told you and Harry that I saw?”

“Yourself holding a pair of socks,” Darcy says. She had been young at the time, but even then, she had the feeling Dumbledore wasn’t being entirely truthful.

“You were a girl then,” Dumbledore continues. “And you are a woman now. Step in front of the mirror and tell me what you see.”

The back of her neck is still damp, the hair at the nape of her neck soaked with sweat. She knows what she’ll likely see in the mirror—her reflection, surrounded by Harry and James and Lily, and it frightens her. What if Lupin isn’t there? What if Sirius is missing? What if the mirror shows her something wrong?

_How can it be wrong?_

Darcy forces herself to step directly in front of the mirror, only a few feet away from it. The angle of the mirror makes Darcy’s legs look much longer than they already are, and thinner. She wraps her arms around herself, trying to stop herself trembling. And then they appear, one by one.

James and Lily are the first ones to appear. James places a hand on Darcy’s shoulder in the mirror, and it makes her uncomfortable. This version of James and Lily are how Darcy had last seen them—twenty-one and unblemished, smiling at their daughter who could be their sister. Darcy stands taller than Lily, just as she had in the memory with Snape, but James is at a height with her. Upon looking at her mother, Darcy almost wishes she could look like her—beautiful, with the same milky flesh as Darcy and the same eyes and the same hair, but Lily’s face is full and her nose is a curved, pixie little thing.

Even from this distance, Lily is perfect—so perfect that it’s easy to imagine how Snape could have fallen in love with her so easily. Darcy wishes she could feel the warmth of Lily’s hands, wishes she could feel how soft her skin is with their hands pressed together. Lily touches Darcy’s arm, the two of them looking very much like sisters, but not to the extent she and James do.

James turns to Darcy’s reflection, leaving a lingering kiss at her temple. She touches her head, unable to feel his lips. It seems awkward for a man Darcy’s age to be doing it, but she doesn’t care. No one can see except for her, and she wishes James would kiss her again and she wishes Lily would hold her hand and hug her.

And then Harry is there, sixteen-years-old, his forehead blank, lacking the lightning bolt scar, smiling at his sister.

Sirius comes, the same age he had been when he died, handsome and grinning and placing both of his hands on Darcy’s shoulders. She wishes she could run to him and throw her arms around him, bury her face into his chest. If he were here, if she could just see him one last time in the flesh, she wouldn’t care that she’s twenty-one and not a child any longer—she would allow herself to be wrapped in the safety of Sirius’ arms, allow him to kiss her face to make up for the years he hadn’t been able to, allow him to hold her until her tears stopped.

When Lupin shows up in the mirror to wrap his arm around Darcy’s waist, his hair graying, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he smiles, among friends again, Darcy’s heart stops. In his left arm is a small boy, no older than four, his hair a sandy brown mess and his eyes a soft green color. He’s such a perfect mix between them, it makes her sad to know she’ll never have a son like him. On Lupin’s hand, supporting their son’s weight, is a good wedding band that makes Darcy’s eyes snap back to her own reflection to find a matching wedding set on her own left hand, a diamond catching the dim light just right to flash and sparkle prettily.

More and more people show up—Hermione and Ron, Gemma and Emily, all taking up position around Darcy. Hermione stands on Gemma’s left side, while on Gemma’s right, Sirius leans into her, and they flash each other small smiles every so often. Emily ruffles Ron’s hair, and he wraps an arm around her neck.

Darcy isn’t sure how long she looks into the mirror, nor does she recall when she’d fallen to her knees or when she’d started crying. The hard ground is painful, but she can easily ignore it, watching everyone wave at her and kiss her and squeeze her hand, and once, Darcy’s reflection even holds her son. It seems hours that she spends with her family, sitting before the mirror, just out of reach, just like she had all those years ago when she’d first discovered the Mirror of Erised, and it had only ever shown her James, Lily, and Harry. Sirius had been no more than a long-forgotten dream, and Lupin had been long since forgotten, as well, having not seen or spoken to him since she was no more than a babe.

“What do you see, Darcy?” Dumbledore whispers, sounding very sad and very far away. He isn’t even visible in the mirror’s glass at all.

“My family,” she rasps, forcing herself to turn away and look Dumbledore in the eyes again. “Do you see your family when you look into the mirror?”

He nods solemnly. “My family alive, healthy, loving . . . together again.”

Darcy looks back at the mirror, wanting to spend as much time as she can here before having to face reality again. She remembers how angry she’d been with Dumbledore before for moving the mirror, but she understands now . . . knows that, if she could, she would allow herself to waste away before this image, allow herself to be consumed by a fantasy, by her deepest desire.

“I’m not coming back next year,” she tells Dumbledore confidently, keeping herself faced towards the mirror. “Remus and I have talked about it.”

“I never anticipated that you would return, nor do I fault you for it.” He takes a few steps closer. “I admire you, Darcy. I always have, and I’m sorry I have not expressed these feelings the way you might have wanted or expected. But Harry is a young man now, whether he wants to be or no. Allow Harry these moments of freedom, these moments of independence. Allow Harry to feel important while he recalls to you what we have discussed. Let him remember that he is his own person, capable of making decisions and coming to conclusions on his own.”

Darcy nods, without really understanding. She’s too entrapped by the mass of people standing around her reflection.

“I trust you will not come looking for the Mirror of Erised again,” he says softly, leaving the rest unsaid. _Keep this between us._

“No, sir.”

Later that night, when Darcy returns to her chambers, she spies Lupin reading on the sofa, waiting for her to return. She sits down beside him, taking one of his hands in hers and kissing his fingers.

“You’ve been a very long time,” he notes, sounding weary. Lupin’s fingers extend to their full length as Darcy leaves sweet kisses on his knuckles, the callused pads of his fingers. “What happened?”

“I saw our son,” she croaks, eyes puffy from crying the entire walk back. “I saw him. Tonight.”

She’s eternally grateful that he doesn’t question her about how she saw him, or why. He doesn’t doubt her or laugh at her or give her some sad fucking look like she’s crazy. Instead, Lupin says, “Tell me of him.”

“He was so beautiful, Remus,” she answers breathlessly, twining their fingers together. “He had your hair and my eyes, my skin and your smile, your face and my nose.”

“He sounds wonderful.”

Darcy smiles weakly at him, and he returns it. “He was.”

Lupin sets his book down, tugging gently on her wrist. She falls gracefully into him. “I wish I could have seen him.”

Darcy sees him again, in her dreams. She knows his name— _James Sirius_ —and sees him Sorted into Gryffindor, sees him pulling pranks with his friends and making his classes laugh with witty remarks. She sees him with his first girlfriend, the slightly dazed look about him that is so much like Lupin after Darcy kisses his face all over without warning.

She thinks so much of the son she will never have, she doesn’t even remember to dwell on anything Dumbledore had told her.


	21. Chapter 21

It’s the first time the three of them are together again since Sirius died.

It makes her anxious, like they shouldn’t be doing this, like it’s some intimate secret the three of them are sharing and keeping so dutifully from her godfather, like they’re going behind his back. _He should be here_ , Darcy keeps telling herself. _This isn’t right, this isn’t right, this isn’t right. We shouldn’t be doing this._

The remnants of their dinner lay all over the coffee table—chicken bones and, on Gemma’s plate, the blackened skin she’d torn off her cornish game hen. She’d been most delighted to smell the cooking herbs upon arriving at the cottage, claiming afterwards that even her own house-elf couldn’t make a chicken half so good as Darcy. Darcy cleans the plates, dumps the bones in the waste bin, tying up the bag inside, meaning to Vanish it, so it doesn’t stink in the morning. The plates she washes by hand, listening to Lupin and Gemma talk as if there had been no time apart, picking up right where they started, as if Sirius’ death doesn’t hang over them like some storm cloud threatening to drench the both of them with tears warm as summer rain. Darcy’s own cloud is a black one, its lightning her rage, it’s thunder her deep sadness.

But that’s unfair, she thinks. Gemma loved him just as much as Darcy had, just as much as Lupin had. Lupin likely has not forgotten Sirius, only knows how to better control his grief. Darcy wonders how long it will take for her to forget her godfather’s handsome face, how long it will take for the months spent in Grimmauld Place to seem like nothing more than a dream. A fresh wave of regret washes over her as thunder booms in her head, unheard by either Lupin or Gemma. She doesn’t even hear the conversation over the rushing of water from the sink, her hands automatically scrubbing circles on the plates. There were so many things she still wanted to say to Sirius, so many things she wanted to ask him. It all makes her heart race, but she forces herself to take slow, deep breaths to hide anything out of the ordinary from her friends.

When the dishes are clean, Darcy makes coffee, pouring out three cups of coffee with trembling hands, adding sugar and cream to everyone’s liking. She knows Lupin prefers tea to the bitter taste of coffee, so she puts more than enough cream to make it light and hardly more than milk. Both Lupin and Gemma take their cups with muttered thanks, Gemma quickly continuing her conversation, dropping off when Lupin holds up a polite hand to stop her, his eyes fixed on Darcy. She looks away from him, drinking her coffee at the modest kitchen counter.

“The wait service is very nice, love,” he tells Darcy with a slight frown, holding up his cup in appreciation. One of his legs is crossed over the other, looking very comfortable in the armchair. “But come sit down. All of your fidgeting is making me anxious.”

Darcy smiles, looking forcefully at Gemma, not wanting to break by looking Lupin in the eyes. “I’m just trying to keep busy. I’ve just got a lot on my mind right now.”

“Well, come tell us, don’t be shy,” Gemma urges with a smile, one arm draped over the back of the sofa, stretched out on it like a lazy cat. “You’ve barely touched your wine. That’s very unlike you.”

Darcy continues to smile politely. Gemma’s words, even in jest, make Darcy feel ashamed. “I’ve been trying to mind my drinking habits. Madam Pomfrey has been insisting for weeks now.”

“That’s wonderful to hear,” Gemma replies, albeit skeptically. “You should have said something before I insisted you open a bottle.”

“I don’t believe it for a minute,” Lupin teases, causing Darcy’s cheeks to turn painfully pink. He pats the arm of the chair with a smile on his face, urging her to sit, but Darcy fidgets uncomfortably, aching for fresh air. “You had two glasses of wine with lunch today and you didn’t mention anything then.”

Feeling humiliated, Darcy forces herself not to cry. Surprisingly, holding back her tears comes quite easily to her, whether or not it’s due to pure willpower or not, she isn’t sure. “I think I’m just going to step outside.” She gropes for a half-pack of cigarettes on the counter behind her.

“Where are you going?” Lupin narrows his eyes, rising very slowly to his feet, as if not wanting to move too fast and startle her away. “You know I don’t mind if you smoke inside.”

“Oh, no, I shouldn’t,” she says quickly. “I just need some air. I’ll only be a moment, and then I promise, I’ll sit with you.”

Lupin doesn’t seem thoroughly convinced, but both he and Gemma allow Darcy to walk through the front door into the bitter night. Though the air is still, and the wind has thankfully decided to rest tonight, the cold is biting after being inside the stuffy, fire-warmed cottage. Only for a few seconds does it feel good on her face, her flushed cheeks due to the amount of food she’s eaten. It leaves her shivering, for she hadn’t grabbed her cloak on the way out, or her hat or gloves or scarf, and Darcy is left shivering in her oversized sweater (once Lupin’s, and one she promised to never return to him) and a thin pair of leggings and two layers of socks. She can hardly even see outside, the surrounding wood nothing more than absolute darkness without the light of a moon.

It’s then she realizes she’s forgotten a lighter, and her wand is inside on the bedside table. Looking around nervously, Darcy holds her fingers up to the end of her cigarette, snapping them and pinching them together and holding up only her index finger, hoping that one of these movements will produce a spark, or—if she’s lucky—a flame. But it’s no use, and so Darcy—not wanting to walk back inside so soon—sighs and slumps against the side of the house, feeling sorry for herself. She should have brought her wand with her, she should always bring her wand with her, especially after what happened to James. But what kind of paranoid person carries their wand around all the time?

It’s not that she doesn’t want to be inside with them. On the contrary, she would love to be inside with Lupin and Gemma, her two of her favorite people in the world, but they’re having so much fun and while they laugh and joke and eat and drink and be fucking merry, Darcy can only dwell on Sirius, and the fact that he is absent from this get together, and she knows that if she brings it up, she’ll ruin it. She doesn’t want Lupin’s last few days to be marred by grief and mourning and sadness, and she doesn’t want to ruin Gemma’s evening by putting a lid on the almost celebratory mood.

But how can she just . . . ignore it? Only last night she’d seen her mother and father and Sirius again in the Mirror of Erised, and Darcy is quite glad that she isn’t at Hogwarts, for she thinks she might have actually sought out the mirror again, despite promising Dumbledore she wouldn’t. Darcy had even considered such a fate, briefly—to waste away in front of that mirror, looking up at all of the people she loves and loved . . . to see them all waving at her, kissing and hugging her . . . if she could only see her son one more time . . . if only her reflection could hold him one last time . . .

_What would Remus see?_

The thought tugs at her heartstrings. If he were set in front of the mirror, would he see himself and his family with Darcy? Would he be holding his son? Would Darcy? Or would he see himself reunited with his best friends again? Friends long gone?

The front door opens suddenly, and the gust of hot air only touches Darcy’s elbow. “Have you forgotten something?” Gemma’s voice calls out. Something is draped over her skinny forearm— _my cloak!_ —and Darcy gets to her feet, allowing Gemma to wrap the cloak around her shoulders as if she were a princess. Darcy wraps it tight about her, nuzzling into the inner fox fur lining. It had cost a lot more than she wanted to pay for it, but times like this, she’s glad for it. “Here, smoke your cigarette before you get hypothermia.”

Darcy purses her lips around the butt of her cigarette. Gemma flicks the flint of her lighter, a small flame roaring into life that illuminates Gemma’s face, deep in concentration. “Thanks,” Darcy mumbles, inhaling deeply. “You don’t have to wait out here for me, you know.”

“I’ve got all night and the rest of my life to talk to him. Besides, it’s you and me that are best friends,” Gemma laughs, and it’s such a sweet and sad noise that it does little to nothing to cheer Darcy. Her thin smile fades quickly, though, and she sighs. “You miss Sirius. I know you do. It’s weird without him here.”

She misses him, too. “I don’t think I want to talk about it right now.”

“Why not?”

“Leave it to me to ruin evenings with depressing thoughts and traumatic memories.”

“Who says that?” Gemma asks coolly, one of her eyebrows raised. Darcy’s sure that, underneath Gemma’s cloak, her arms are folded over her chest. “Surely not just yourself? Don’t you think I—of all people—would have given up on you long ago if that’s what I thought?”

Darcy sighs again, offering her cigarette to Gemma. Gemma shakes her head, taking one for herself and lighting it. Darcy watches her all the while with a certain envy in her chest. How strong Gemma is, to put on a brave face every time she’s with someone, every time she’s with Darcy. How brave she is to mask her own feelings for the sake of others.

“I have so much to tell you,” Darcy says with a frown. “Will you stay the night tonight? I can’t wait any longer.”

“Does Remus know about these things?”

“Partly. I couldn’t tell him the whole truth. It would have been too humiliating.”

Gemma exhales loudly through her nose. She settles herself where Darcy had originally been sitting, and Darcy sits back down, shoulder to shoulder with her friend. “Sure,” she finally answers. “I guess I’ll stay, as long as it’s all right with Lupin.”

“I’m sure he won’t mind. Besides, this is important.”

“Fine,” Gemma chuckles. “Just promise me you won’t play any more house-elf. Sit and talk with us.”

“I will.”

There’s a pause, in which Darcy flicks her dead cigarette butt away from her. “You’re not really watching your alcohol intake, are you?”

“No, but I’d appreciate it if you took it a little more seriously next time.”

“ _Me_!” Gemma scoffs, the corners of her lips quirking upwards, and she doesn’t try very hard to stifle her smile. “Remus was the one not taking it seriously! Besides, you have to drink tonight. It’s only right . . . the three of us back together.”

Darcy forces another smile. She wishes they’d come easier, more naturally. “I’m sorry,” she says. “It’s just . . . with Remus leaving so soon . . .”

“I know. That’s why we have to make the most of tonight. Hey—did you bring your camera? We could take a picture of all of us to mark the occasion.”

“I brought it, but I haven’t been taking any pictures. I guess I’ve forgotten.”

Gemma pulls Darcy inside by the hand, smiling all the while. Lupin looks far too comfortable in his armchair, slouched like he’s been there for years, watching the television with glossy eyes, his cheeks red from drink. But he looks pleased enough to see Darcy sit on the sofa, curled up beside Gemma.

“I’ve told Darcy it’s a rain check on her intervention,” Gemma teases, handing Darcy her glass of wine.

Lupin winks at her, sitting up straighter to rejoin conversation.

“Darcy, does Remus know how our formal update sessions used to go during school?” Gemma asks Darcy very seriously, reaching down by her feet to dig around in the bag she’s brought. There’s the clinking of glass and it makes Darcy smile, shaking her head. Clearing her throat, Gemma looks at Lupin and continues dramatically. “So, during our fifth year, our school work became a huge buffer in our friendship, plus Carla was younger and we were all in different Houses for the most part. So we would hold these little get togethers . . . Darcy and Emily always used to come together beneath the Invisibility Cloak.”

Lupin chuckles.

“The rule was, everybody brings their own alcohol, that way you just end up getting _really_ pissed.” Gemma withdraws a bottle of firewhisky from her bag, holding it up like a trophy. “So we’d pour drinks, and then—it was typically Darcy who banged the mock-gavel to signal the beginning of our meeting, usually with some fancy prose from some poem. Are you going to indulge us this time, Darcy?”

Darcy watches Gemma uncork the bottle. She shouldn’t, she knows. Drinking will only make her misery worse the more she drinks, but it could also mean dreamless sleep. She wants so badly for this night to be happy for Lupin and Gemma, even if it isn’t for her.

“‘Flower in the crannied wall, I pluck you out of the crannies, I hold you here, root and all, in my hand,’” Darcy begins, earning her an easy smile from Lupin, a dreamy and faraway look in his eyes. “Little flower—but if I could understand what you are, root and all, and all in all, I should know what God and man is.’”

Gemma claps loudly, all business and incredibly professional, but Darcy knows her better than that. “Amazing!” she says breathlessly, looking to Lupin. “Is there any woman who could remember such beautiful poetry like our dear Darcy?”

“Enough chatter,” Darcy tells the both of them sternly, lightly tapping the coffee table with her hand to catch their attention. Both Gemma and Lupin quiet, watching her. “Council is now in session.”

“First thing on the agenda—” Gemma drinks straight from the bottle of firewhisky, sniffling at the shot goes down and presumably clears her sinuses. She passes it to Darcy. “Oh, that’s good. Works better than any Pepper-Up Potion Madam Pomfrey’s ever given me.”

“And what sorts of things are shared during these secret meetings?” Lupin asks playfully, drinking from the bottle and handing it back to Gemma.

“Anything,” Darcy answers, a small smile playing at her lips. “Go on, Gemma. What’s the first thing on our agenda tonight?”

Gemma raises her wine glass, sharing a significant, sideways look with Darcy. “A toast,” she says quietly. “A toast to our old friend who couldn’t be here with us tonight. Forgive me, but I don’t think we’ve properly mourned him, nor have we properly celebrated his life.”

She’s bringing it up so I don’t have to. Darcy, her heart beating very quickly, has never loved Gemma more. She glances at Lupin, afraid his initial reaction will be anger—thankfully, it is anything but.

“Would you like to say something, Remus?” Darcy asks him sweetly, wanting to hear nothing but good things about her godfather, wanting to remember the best of him. “It’s only right that you’d speak first.”

Lupin exhales the deep breath he’d been holding, laughing nervously. “I don’t know that I could properly do Sirius justice with as much as I’ve had to drink. Darcy, why don’t you do it?”

Darcy blinks. “Me?”

“You were his goddaughter.” Lupin shrugs modestly, a weight seemingly lifted off his shoulders. “He loved you best.”

Blushing, Darcy shrinks back into the sofa. “I don’t think that’s very true—”

“I do.” A crease appears between Lupin’s eyebrows, as if he’s trying to catch her in a lie. His long fingers stroke the rough whiskers growing back in on his chin, almost lovingly so. “From the day you were born, he had been positively taken with you.”

“I know,” she confesses, clearing her throat in hopes of ending the conversation here and now. But it feels good to talk about it among trusted friends. “He told me.” Darcy squirms uncomfortably, afraid that if she looks at Gemma, she will see the disappointment and sadness on her face. “Besides, I know he loved the two of you, and Harry . . .”

“I never said he didn’t,” Lupin replies, not unkindly. Despite his gentle tone, Darcy half feels as if she’s being accused of something. He lifts his glass, putting an end to it. “To Sirius. Gone before his time, but certainly not forgotten.”

“To Sirius,” Gemma and Darcy echo.

Darcy sips bashfully at her wine, trying to ignore the ache in her heart and put in her stomach that she now associates with Sirius and his untimely death.

After a polite and respectful silence, Gemma finally speaks, slowly regaining her usual demeanor. “I’d like to go first, then,” she announces, albeit in a softer and much more emotional voice. Looking from Darcy to Lupin and back again, she seems to grow nervous. “I’ve been thinking about getting my own place.”

“Where?” Darcy asks quickly (or more like, demands), wincing upon hearing the sharpness in her voice—the envy in her tone.

“I don’t know yet,” Gemma admits, smiling. “Dumbledore’s offered me full protection wherever I decide . . . preferably far away from Bath. And far away from Somerset. I was thinking maybe Leeds. There’s an old family friend up that way that I’m rather partial to.”

“That’s rather a big move, isn’t it? From Bath to Leeds?” Lupin asks cautiously.

“It’s not that long. I’ve looked it up. It only looks further on a map,” Gemma protests. “I could make the trip by train in about four hours. Faster if I flew on a broom.”

“Regardless,” Lupin says, waving an impatient hand. He looks far more concerned about this move than Gemma does. “Moving near across the country . . . to some, it may look like you’re running.”

“If it were up to me, I’d already be living on the beaches of Italy, doing nothing but eating capicola until my dying day.” Gemma sighs heavily, running a hand through her dark hair. “I know what it would look like to some if I left. That’s why I’ll likely just be moving to Exeter. Much closer, much less suspicious.”

Darcy’s blood begins to bubble. Dumbledore said he’d offer her full protection—why doesn’t Gemma just go? She has the freedom to move wherever she wants, to cities that Darcy will likely never see in her lifetime. “What’s in Exeter?” she asks again.

Gemma looks sad about it, shrugging her shoulders as if the city is nothing but a few houses and a plain old square with no markets or anything. “There’s a flat just by one of the old churches that’s good enough. I’ve been able to save up from what I’m making at St Mungo’s, and . . . you know, what I’ve already got in my vault from mum and dad.” Though her words are genuine sounding enough, Gemma’s face doesn’t reflect what little joy she speaks with. “And there’s . . . museums there, you know . . . all the cathedrals and parks and theaters . . . you’d like it, Darcy.”

“And your parents are all right with this? With you moving away during such . . . times?” Lupin says, still in that same curious and cautious tone.

“They were rather accepting of my Italy wish, truthfully,” Gemma says, and she laughs loudly, breaking up the thick tension that had suddenly settled without warning. “But they know better. They know what will happen if I’m found attempting to escape. It’s only a matter of time before I’m married off like some broodmare, anyway.”

Darcy and Lupin meet eyes for a moment, but she knows they’re both thinking the same thing, picturing Gemma at the side of some inbred pureblood, Death Eater boy. Despite the burning envy in Darcy’s veins, she feels for Gemma. “I wish there was something I could do,” she tells her apologetically.

“Find me a decent man who’ll marry me by the summer,” Gemma retorts. It’s framed as a joke, Darcy knows, but it seems more of a desperate plea than anything.

“I think both Weasley twins are single,” she supplies, but Darcy knows it’s a sad option. Not that Fred and George are terrible options, but not one Gemma would likely seriously consider. “I’m sorry, Gemma.”

“Why are you sorry?” Gemma asks, chuckling lightly. “Anyway, a hard pass on Fred and George, but I wouldn’t say no to Charlie.”

Darcy grins. “I’ll be sure to check in with him when I’m in Hogsmeade again. I’ll send a post owl.”

“That’s sweet.” Gemma drinks deeply from her wine glass, leaving it empty to drink again from the bottle of firewhisky. Darcy isn’t bothered—Gemma’s always been the best of them when it’s come to holding their liquor. “That’s all I’ve got then. Darcy, you’re next.”

Darcy flushes brilliantly. “I don’t really have much exciting news.”

“Anything, then,” Gemma urges.

“Well . . . I’ve been thinking lately, and . . .” She looks at Lupin, ashamed, despite his warm smile. “I think I’m going to take Madam Pomfrey up on her offer to talk to someone. Preferably her, you know . . . I’d rather not tell a stranger all my deepest, darkest secrets.”

A look of shame then crosses Lupin’s face as he battles some internal conflict, likely trying not to imagine Darcy telling Madam Pomfrey the gory details of their relationship.

“That’s . . . great, Darcy,” Gemma tells her, struggling to find a proper term to describe her approval. But the smile she flashes then is enough, white teeth gleaming in the orange firelight. “I’m so happy for you. Have you spoken to her about it?”

“A while ago, yes. I’m sure she’ll be happy that I’m seeking help now, though.”

Lupin has seemingly defeated whatever doubts had wormed their way into his brain. He cheers her. “Better late than never.”

Darcy nods. In truth, she’d only really given the option some thought as of that very morning, when she’d woken from a nightmare involving her father and some very large spiders. It’s not that her nightmare was so terrible—compared to her usual dreams, this one had been tame, but still unwanted, and Lupin would rather cut off his arm than watch Darcy drink herself to sleep night after night chasing a long sleep that doesn’t involve being medicated or sedated by some potion in Madam Pomfrey’s collection.

“Your turn,” Darcy says to Lupin, hoping no one will dwell on her own confession.

Lupin sighs loudly, leaning back into his armchair. “I don’t know that I have anything to say,” he says. “I’m home, for the time being, with you. Is that exciting enough?”

Gemma chortles as she watches Darcy’s cheeks turn bright pink. “It’ll do.”

He raises his eyebrows and nods slightly, gripping the arms of the chair and standing with much popping and cracking in his knees. “As delightful as I find your company,” he smiles, gesturing to both Darcy and Gemma, “I think I’ll leave you to chat.”

“Oh,” Darcy blurts out, feeling stupid and childish. “I told Gemma she could stay the night.”

“As if I’d condone Disapparation in the state Gemma will likely be in by the end of the night.” Even Gemma laughs at that, and has to agree. Lupin bends down before Darcy to kiss her chastely on the cheek, and her fingers jump to the skin on her cheek that tingles and burns from contact with his lips. “Good-night, my love. Good-night, Gemma.”

Darcy watches Lupin retreat into his bedroom, the door closing behind him softly. She looks down at her watch and feels guilty for pushing him off to bed so early, only nine-thirty, and glances at Gemma. “I’ll be right back.”

“Sure. I’ll meet you outside, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Nearly leaping from the sofa, Gemma heads one way—towards the front door with an unlit cigarette already perched between her lips—and Darcy pushes open the door to the bedroom. Lupin’s shirt is already off, and he’s fussing about in his dresser for pajamas. He looks up as she enters, looking more tired than he had just five seconds ago in the sitting room. Darcy closes the door behind her, leaning lightly against it.

“That talk of Sirius . . . it didn’t upset you, did it?” she asks, afraid of his answer. “I’m sorry. I never intended—”

“It wasn’t you who brought Sirius up. Don’t be sorry.” When Lupin notices Darcy’s eyes traveling over his torso, he stands up straighter, as if to make it easier for her. She grins, glad he no longer shies away. “Besides, I’m not upset.” He smiles wider just to reassure her.

“Are you sure it’s all right that Gemma stays?”

“I’m not so cruel as to send her back to her parents’ house when it’s so obvious she’s ready to leave there.” He beckons her closer with his fingers. “Come here.”

Darcy does as she’s told, without hesitation, an instinct that comes too naturally to her. Lupin sighs, lips pursed, his hands resting on her waist, her shoulders, and then cupping her face to kiss her deeply for a few seconds.

“You’re serious about talking to someone?” he asks.

She shrugs. “I guess I am.”

“It’ll be good for you. I’m happy that you’ve decided to speak to someone.”

“Stop that, it’s embarrassing.”

“Why?” he laughs, and it’s such a sweet laugh that Darcy can’t even be mad at him. “There’s nothing shameful about it. You’ve been through more than most grown women face in their entire lifetime. I’d imagine it would feel damn good to talk about it.”

Darcy hesitates, placing her hand over his heart. It beats steady against her palm. “You could stay with us, you know. We don’t mind.” She lowers her hand quickly, but Lupin catches her wrist with surprising agility, bringing her hand to his chest again.

“As long as you’re beside me when I wake up in the morning, I won’t complain.” He smiles, a smug smile that tells her he knows exactly what kind of effect it has on her.

Lupin allows Darcy to withdraw her hand from his chest. She lowers her eyes, blushing, staring past him for a moment. The thought of him leaving so soon again makes her mood deflate again. It seems to happen so often now, and so easily. “I love you,” she sighs.

“ _Try_ not to sound so disappointed about it,” Lupin teases, whining the words into the crook of her neck as his arms slip around her waist, kissing her shoulder before letting up. “I’ve grown quite fond of how genuine it sounds when you usually say it.”

“You’re not half so drunk as you look,” Darcy murmurs, embarrassed. “Gemma’s probably waiting for me.”

“What will she do if you’re another . . . ten minutes or so?” Lupin fingers the hem of her sweater, lifting it tantalizingly slowly, teasing her.

“She’ll know what we’ve been doing the moment I set foot out the door,” she protests weakly, but his hands don’t stop. Any second now and Darcy will have to raise her arms in order for him to slip her sweater off. “Can’t you wait?”

“I suppose the wine must have lowered my inhibitions.” He grins against her cheek, his hot breath against her earlobe making her shiver. “Besides, when have you ever kept me waiting before?”

“The anticipation will make it that much better,” she promises, forcing herself not to lift her arms as her sweater stops rising.

“Likely you’ll come back to bed tonight stumbling,” he jokes, his laughter sweet. “I know the two of you. What will I do then?”

“What will you do then?” Darcy closes her eyes as he quickly unclips her bra. “When you have a young girl in your bed waiting to be taken advantage of?”

“Is that so?” Lupin asks, cocking an eyebrow. “I know you when you’re drunk, and I _adore_ you when you’re drunk. Terribly cute, and in such a rush to tear my clothes off.”

Darcy takes a step back, pulling her sweater back down without bothering to clip her bra back together. It’s not as if she’s got decent sized tits to be worried about. Something else that sours her mood further.

Gemma is just coming inside from smoking a cigarette when Darcy leaves the bedroom. She gives a dramatic shiver upon crossing the threshold, stomping her snowy boots upon the mat before sliding out of them and her cloak. “Cold out there,” she sniffles, falling onto the sofa beside Darcy. “Listen, I brought something with me. It took me forever to convince Emily to get some for me.”

“What?”

“Turns out the sixteen-year-old kid who lives next door to Emily sells pot.” Gemma opens her pack of cigarettes and pulls out a neatly rolled out. “Emily rolled me a few cigarettes with some in it. Judging by the look of it, it wasn’t her first time.”

Darcy examines it closely. “Does it still have tobacco in it?”

Gemma rolls her eyes, clearly not happy with Darcy’s reaction. “Yes, you fiend, there’s still tobacco in it.” She waves it in front of Darcy’s face. “You want to?”

“Sure.”

“You’re much easier to convince of things than Emily is.” Gemma gets to her feet, nodding towards the door, but Darcy pulls her back to the sofa. If she’s going to do this, she doesn’t want to have freeze herself to death at the same time. “You ever done it before?”

“No,” Darcy answers. She knows Dudley and his friends had picked up the habit, but it’s not like they’d invited her along to do it with them. “Have you?”

“No. My dad used to smoke this stuff in a pipe that made me dizzy, but I think it was just because I was inhaling it.” Gemma puts the end to her lips, lighting the opposite end with a lighter. “I don’t know what this is supposed to do for us that alcohol can’t.”

“It’s a new experience. We’ll be talking about this fifty years from now.” Darcy takes the cigarette and takes a couple of drags. “It tastes like a cigarette.” She passed it back to Gemma. There’s a different scent that catches her attention briefly, a sweeter scent than that of the tobacco smoke. “Slughorn’s having a fucking Christmas party soon.”

“Oh, sounds fun.” Gemma’s dark eyes are alight with excitement. No doubt she finds the idea amusing. “Slughorn knows all kinds of people. Who knows who’ll be there?”

“What are you doing for Christmas?” she asks, as she and Gemma finish the cigarette without much impairment to their senses. “Remus isn’t sure if he’ll be back for Christmas or not, so Ron’s been talking about having us at the Burrow.”

“I’ll be around,” Gemma replies, leaning back on the arm of the sofa. “Probably attend the usual gala Christmas day. You know I told you last there that mum and dad were pushing for me to marry?” Darcy nods, and she continues. “Now they’re really pushing it for it.”

Darcy frowns. “Any contenders?”

“Mum’s old pen pal has a son that’s twenty-six. They’re from Sweden, would you believe that?” Gemma tosses her short dark hair back, as if the prospect is rather appealing to her. “According to my mother, they’re a pureblood family, an old bloodline that can be traced back to 1312. But, being from Sweden . . .”

“He isn’t a Death Eater.”

“The bar is set pretty low, isn’t it?”

“Maybe he’s nice.”

“I don’t want my possible future husband to only be _nice_.”

Darcy shifts uncomfortably, giving a shrug of her shoulders. “Have you seen a picture of him?”

“He’s good-looking enough, but it’s like he’s never seen the sun before,” Gemma complains.

“Well . . . I guess that’s just . . . Swedish genetics, isn’t it?”

“Shut up, you. Besides, his mother expects grandchildren, and I’m not inclined to give her the satisfaction.”

Darcy hesitates. The notion of another woman not wanting children baffles her for a moment, due to her own desperate desires. “You don’t want children?”

“Do you want to know what children do to you?” Gemma asks seriously, opening the bottle of firewhisky again. “They make you fat and your tits get all uneven, and then when they pop out, they just cry and shit themselves and you can’t even go out for a drink whenever you want. I suppose we’d have a nanny . . . I wouldn’t be caught dead changing diapers, even _with_ magic . . .”

“I wouldn’t mind being pregnant,” Darcy says softly, feeling slightly hurt. Is that how Gemma would view her after children? It’s this that keeps Darcy from confessing to that secret she’s held dear for so long now. “I wouldn’t even mind being fat, and maybe my tits would get bigger. I wouldn’t look so much like a thirteen-year-old boy.”

“Speak for yourself,” Gemma sneers. “You’ve got bigger tits than me.”

“I don’t think Remus really wants children,” Darcy says, and it hurts even more to say aloud. Suddenly the words are spilling out of her ubidden, and she’s telling Gemma about her meeting with Dumbledore and their trek to the Mirror of Erised (conveniently leaving out the more personal details of Dumbledore’s life). She tells Gemma about the people in the mirror, of the beautiful son of hers that had been sitting so contently in his father’s arms, and the way Lupin had reacted upon hearing about some son of theirs that wasn’t even real, also leaving out the part about his doubts as to whether or not he can have children. “I could live without children, truly, but . . . I don’t know that I would ever be truly happy without at least one.”

“From what you’ve said, it seems like he’s willing.” Gemma waves a flippant hand. “He’s a man. The idea of fatherhood likely just frightens him, is all.”

“You know he’s got good reason to be more fearful than other fathers.”

“There’s never been any evidence that lycanthropy can be passed down,” Gemma tries to reassure her. She sighs, lips pursed, sitting up a little straighter. “Granted, there haven’t been many studies done, but . . . if there has been a case of genetically inheriting lycanthropy, St Mungo’s has never gotten wind of it.”

Darcy exhales loudly through her nose. “I wish Sirius were here. Even if he hated the subject matter, he’d know what to say.”

“Sirius didn’t give such great advice, you know,” Gemma titters over her wine glass, a quarter full of firewhisky, the bottom still stained red from the wine.

“But he knew Remus better than anyone, even better than me. Probably even better than Remus himself.” Darcy runs her hands through her hair, wishing the image of Sirius’ handsome face would fade from her brain. “I’ve got to ask you something.”

“Go on. It sounds important. Can I top you off first?”

“Cheers.” Darcy traces her bottom lip with her thumb, watching Gemma carefully pour more firewhisky into her nearly untouched glass. There hadn’t really been a reason to pour more in it. If Darcy were to drink the glassful, she’d be passed out on the floor within twenty minutes. “I’ve been thinking . . . I think so much of what’s been going on with me is because of Sirius.”

To her great surprise, Gemma smiles, but it’s a sad and pitiful one, making Darcy feel childish. “You’re grieving, Darcy,” she explains patiently. “Of course you’re not at your best. Grief is only natural. With talking to someone, you’ll be better in no time.”

“Tell me something, Gemma, and tell me the truth about it.” Darcy stares hard into Gemma’s face, trying to keep her face impassive, trying to mimic Snape’s hard exterior, to not let any emotion slip through. “Was I better before seventh year? Was I decent? _Normal_? Before the dementors . . . before I remembered . . . was it better that way?”

Gemma narrows her eyes, lowering her voice. “What are you saying?”

Darcy carries on recklessly. “I’m saying that . . . for as long as I know and remember what happened to my parents and to Sirius, I’ll never be able to let it go. I’ll always think about it.”

“No one says you have to forget again, or ignore it,” Gemma insists, her brows knitting together. “Many people who’ve undergone great tragedy and trauma and taught to accept . . . it’s the final stage of grief—”

“Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

Darcy scowls. “Talk to me like I’m your fucking patient.” She reaches for the cigarettes on the table, pulls an ashtray bearer, fumbles with a lighter. “I just wonder sometimes if it would be better to forget again . . . a Memory Charm, to make me think he was gone somewhere or . . . I don’t know.” It’s not as if Snape would take the memory of her godfather’s death from her, just like he refused to do with the memory of the murder of her parents. And even if she figured out how to do it herself, she wouldn’t want the memory to just . . . vanish. She’d want to know that it was stored somewhere safe, just in case . . . “I could be myself for the first time in years.”

“Forgetting would be an insult to Sirius’ memory.” Gemma sounds truly angry now, and it shames Darcy. “Do you want to know what I think? I think that you were more yourself seventh year than you’d ever been before. You know people thought of you as another Emily? She made you into the friend she wanted, and you went along with the whole thing.”

“I asked for the truth. I didn’t ask for you to fucking tell me every little thing people thought of me behind my back.”

“So you only wanted the censored truth?”

“Why are you such a bitch, Gemma?” Darcy hisses, and Gemma’s sharp face contorts with rage. “You think you’re the only fucking person in this world who sees Sirius when they close their fucking eyes? You don’t know shit about how I feel, or what I dream, or what I think.”

“I know enough to know you’d rather take the easy way out than deal with it,” Gemma snaps. “You’d forget your godfather, or at least his death, so you wouldn’t have to think about it. You would have drowned yourself in order to avoid making tough choices. You rather live life like some Muggle because you’re too afraid to confront the life you’ve been dealt.”

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Darcy is in half a mind to hex her here and now, but her wand is too far away to reach for inconspicuously. She puts her cigarette out violently. “What is your problem? Are you jealous or something?”

“What do you have that I would ever be jealous about?”

“You’re jealous that Sirius loved me more than you, and now you’ve finally got the chance to tell me how you really feel.”

“I’m not _jealous_!” Gemma shouts, getting to her feet. Darcy stands with her, not willing to back down. “You really think that? At least I’m grown up enough to face with my demons, Darcy, not run away from them.”

“You have no idea what it’s like being me.”

“Probably no worse than being Harry, and he seems to handle it pretty well.” Gemma steps forward, looking up into Darcy’s face. “You wouldn’t last a day as me.”

“You wouldn’t last a day as me, either.”

“Yeah, I bet it would be _really_ tough being fucked to sleep at night, waking up next to the love of your life. I bet it would be really fucking hard to walk all the way from your office to the dungeons every morning. Like I said, if I were you, I’d at least face my problems instead of just forgetting. I would have never forgotten my parents’ death if it were me in that position.”

Blinded by rage, Darcy curls her fingers into the front of Gemma’s shirt, her hands shaking violently as the tips of their noses hardly touch. “You don’t know anything about what it was like for me at Privet Drive in the weeks that followed that,” she snarls, but the effect is lost on a bored-looking Gemma. “Everything I did was to survive. I was _five_. What would have had me do?” Releasing Gemma roughly, she takes a few steps back, putting much needed distance between them. “While you were being raised by a loving family with a house-elf who tended to your every need, I was being beaten in a house that I was never wanted in.”

It’s quiet for a long while. Gemma’s face is flat and expressionless. “If I had any sense left to me, I’d leave right now.”

“Then why don’t you?”

Gemma hesitates, tearing her gaze away from Darcy forcefully. It almost makes Darcy feel sorry. “Because you’re all I’ve got.” She huffs. “So just shut the fuck up with this ‘woe is me, I’m Darcy Potter and don’t have a family’ shit. The mirror was right. You’ve already got a real family.”

“So do you,” Darcy counters stubbornly, crossing her arms over her chest. “You’ve still got your mother and father, and you’ve got me, and Remus and Harry and Emily—”

“You don’t get it, do you?” Gemma asks, looking back at Darcy. This time, the floodgates have opened, and Darcy can see the desperation in Gemma’s brown eyes, the way her eyebrows move to reflect pain. Darcy finds it quite amazing that Gemma is able to convey emotions so well with only her expression. “I’m an outsider, everywhere I go, and it will always be that way because of who I am. No one is jumping at the chance to love me. It’s like that at St Mungo’s, with you and Remus, at Hogwarts . . . even at my own home, there’s a huge wall between my parents and I that's adorned by a Dark Mark. You could never imagine that feeling.”

Darcy thinks of days spent at Emily’s house when she was younger, sitting at a dinner table where there was no animosity, but a certain sense of intimacy and love that Darcy wasn’t privy to. She thinks of the first time she’d visited the Burrow—not really a friend of Ron’s. Just Harry Potter’s sister. “I know—”

“You don’t,” Gemma retorts coldly. “You could never, because through it all, you’ve always had Harry. You’ve always been apart of a family, always honest and open. I can’t remember the last time my mother or father were open and honest with me.”

“You don’t think you’re part of my family?” Darcy asks quietly, genuinely hoping Gemma doesn’t answer ‘no’. “I saw you in the Mirror of Erised. I didn’t add you into the equation because I felt sorry, you were there because I love you.” Darcy inhales deeply. “All those years it was the four of us, is this how you felt?”

“Don’t pretend Emily doesn’t think it,” she snaps, looking off towards the fire. “I know you’ve all thought it . . . how far you can trust me, how long until I’m branded like an animal.”

Darcy, struck dumb by this confession, softens. She thinks of all the time last year that Gemma had kissed her whenever she just wanted to be loved, remembers the way Darcy could lay her head in Gemma’s lap and be put to sleep by the feeling of fingernails against her scalp. She remembers the immeasurable support, love, and comfort Gemma had brought her while her heart was absolutely shattered, and Gemma had never asked for anything in return. Gemma, selfless and loving, had stepped up to care for Darcy when she needed care, and now Darcy knows it’s time to repay the favor.

Taking a careful step forward, Darcy slowly envelopes Gemma in her arms, white fingers melding with dark hair, hair as dark as Harry’s. Gemma doesn’t pull away, nor does she fight it or tense—she allows herself to fall into Darcy, nuzzling into the warmth of her sweater.

“I like you better now than how you were before you remembered,” Gemma whispers, and Darcy feels something wet on her hand as she strokes the hair from her friend’s face.

Darcy rests her cheek atop Gemma’s head, thinking hard. “I hardly remember who I used to be.”

“You’ve just grown up, is all.”

“I hate growing up,” Darcy says, resentful. “I don’t even know who I am anymore.”

“Of course you don’t. You’re building yourself from the ground up this time.”

“Isn’t that terrifying?” Darcy asks, wondering how many different versions of herself there have been throughout her life. “Any day, any time, you could be whoever you wanted.”

Gemma laughs weakly. “I think it’s fantastic.”

And that night, when Darcy slips under the blankets beside Lupin, she decides that she can be whoever she wants, not just the soft little girl she’d once been, the girl who liked to make love by a warm fire after a few glasses of wine (though she doesn’t think that will ever _entirely_ go away). Instead, she will be mean and rough around the edges, hard to swallow at times because that’s how you stop people from using you. She is angry, she is _tired_. No one ever told her getting older would be so hard. No one ever told her that there would be so much change versus the stagnation and complacency that she’d expected. Maybe three years isn’t a whole lot, but Darcy’s done and seen and experienced a lot in those three years she’s been free of Hogwarts (sort of), and she isn’t some stupid teenager. She doesn’t ever want to be that stupid teenager again. She will be strong, formidable, stern, and she will begin in the bedroom, with the man she trusts with her life to keep her safe and to love her.

Darcy straddles his waist, waking him. “I want you to fuck me,” she tells him, slightly uncomfortable with the crude sound of the words, but not wanting to show it. “Just fuck me.”

Lupin lets his eyes adjust to the darkness for a moment, pushing his hair back out of his face. “Yeah?”

She nods matter-of-factly. “Must I repeat myself?”

“And here I thought you’d be rather submissive when you came to bed.”

“I can be, if you want me to be.”

His tongue darts out to wet his lips and he touches her arms, keeping her in place on his lap. “Come here.”

Darcy feels a sense of perverted victory a short while later, after he pushes himself inside of her from behind. One of his strong hands is tangled in her hair, her head tilted back so far she can almost see him, and his other hand near her mouth, enough fingers shoved in her mouth to make speaking incoherent, and Darcy likes the feeling of his chest against her curved spine far more than she should. He bites at her unmarred shoulder, biting so hard that Darcy—though unable to see the marks—knows they will leave scars to match the violent ones on her left shoulder. Something warm begins to trickle down her back and arm after a while, and she knows it’s blood from his teeth sinking into her skin. But these are different; her chest and neck and shoulders are already marked by him in smaller sizes, permanent reminders of nights spent tangled up in each other, the permanent reminder that she is _his_. Darcy could point to every single bite mark and recall the story behind it. She loves it all, and loves the wolf especially, their violent lovemaking that typically comes with the slow arrival of the full moon, or the possessive way he grips her, fingertips nearly leaving bruises like paint on one of Emily’s brand new easels.

_Would eighteen-year-old me have done this?_

The answer is _no_ , she tells herself. Eighteen-year-old Darcy would have scoffed at the idea of Lupin—or anyone—pounding into her from behind like an animal in heat. But that was then, and this is now, and even without looking at him, even over her soft moans and her cries of pain and ecstasy whenever she feels his teeth graze her skin, she knows that he’s close due to the way he slams harder into her, filling her as much as he can. Darcy gets a mouthful of the bed sheets and blankets when Lupin forces her head down, holding her there as he spends himself inside of her, panting.

“I don’t want you to go,” she whispers, lifting her head slightly from the bed as he pulls out of her and releases his grip on her hair. “Please don’t go again.”

“I have to,” he whispers, leaning down to kiss the top of her spine. “I’m sorry.”

It’s this that breaks her. As the tears begin to flow and as Lupin’s arms curl around her and they settle beside each other, Darcy knows that she’ll never be anything other than a soft, stupid, romantic little girl. He peppers her face with scratchy kisses, and she smiles through her tears, closing her eyes as his lips touch each of her eyelids gently.

“Darcy,” Lupin whispers, “look at me.”

Her eyes flutter open.

“When summer comes, I will give you everything I can.”

She kisses his lips softly. “Okay.”


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I AM SO SORRY FOR MY ABRUPT DISAPPEARANCE.
> 
> I've been seeing a therapist and dealing with a lot of personal issues and have recently been trying to adopt some new coping mechanisms that have been suggested. I kept promising myself that I would write, but with a shortage of time and my attention focused elsewhere, I haven't found the time to sit down and write more than a few paragraphs at a time. Pair that with my desire to continue outlining and planning an original novel, that leaves little time for this. 
> 
> I promise that I am not going to abandon this--chapters may come much more sporadically, but thanks to everyone who's hanging in there with me.

The sun is already setting, casting a pink and orange hue over the grounds, where patches of golden-looking snow still remain from the last snowfall. The massive amount of foot traffic in and around the courtyard and greenhouses have worn it down to hardly anything but gray slush and gravel, the grass and summer wildflowers long dead. It’s still colder than it has any right to be, but it’s mostly the mountain wind, knives carving at her face and catching her hair to swirl it up over her head, making her look like Medusa, dark red hair writhing like snakes. If only her hair could turn Lupin to stone, to keep him here forever. It comes and goes, however, the wind gusting hard before settling back to a gentle winter breeze, blowing the thin tendrils of the bare trees in the far off forest and the smoke that rises from Hagrid’s hut, the air likely stuffy and thick due to the fire within. Even the Whomping Willow sighs in the distance, giving its branches a shake to dump the heavy snow off before stilling again, waiting for its next unsuspecting victim. 

The fact that Darcy has had all day to dwell on this moment hasn’t done her any good. Her eyes have been puffy and red-rimmed, her cheeks blotchy and bright red from crying so much, silently throughout classes (her first year class had been bewildered when Darcy had sobbed when someone asked who it was that was with her that morning). Part of her wishes that he’d have left early in the morning before the sun rose, just so she wouldn’t hang off him and be reduced to begging. But then again, to kiss him several times before he leaves again would be so sweet, and she wants to hold him for a moment so if he never comes back, she’ll still be able to remember. That’s what she’s so afraid of; Darcy has gone weeks without him before, and while the thought is nerve wracking, she is much more concerned with the fact that this may very well be the last time she ever sees him, and what are you supposed to say or do in a situation such as this?

Lupin had insisted they say good-bye in the courtyard, afraid of her walking back to the castle from Hogsmeade in the dark. She’d offered to go down with an escort, but Lupin’s face had darkened, and Darcy knew that he was thinking of Snape. Not wanting to upset him, she had agreed to say good-bye in the courtyard, regardless of what she wanted. It made him happy, and that’s all that matters to her now. 

Darcy has removed her gloves, wanting to feel his warm flesh against hers. Her middle fingers softly run up and down the lengths of each of his long fingers, tears spilling down her cheeks as she tries to compose herself. While she is focused on his hands, she can’t help but blush under what seems severe scrutiny. His eyes are fixed upon her face, roving her face like he’s never seen her properly before. 

It had only been yesterday that they’d smiled like children free of burdens. Lupin had taken her to the market, allowed her to take several pictures of  him, and made her lunch. When they had returned to Hogwarts, Darcy had played the piano for him until he’d locked the door and taken her on the dusty floor of that very room, her hips pinned to the ground, unable to move no matter how much she wriggled (not that she’d wanted to  _ really _ get away). For dinner, they’d fed each other like lovesick teenagers, much the same way Fleur had done to Bill so often over the summer, but Lupin may never come back from his mission, so Darcy thought it was okay, it was different. She’d fed him fruit and kissed the juice off his lips, while Lupin fed her slightly melted chocolate. He’d smiled whenever Darcy’s tongue flicked out to touch the pads of his fingertips, the chocolate warm and sweet, even eaten directly off his skin. Once, he’d placed a small square of chocolate on her tongue, only to give her an open-mouthed and hungry and greedy kiss directly afterwards to eat it himself. Another thing she’s never done with anyone, nor would she. 

Everything she did, she did with overt enthusiasm, hoping that Lupin might change his mind and decide to stay. Every time he’d fucked her, Darcy had repeated the words that never fail to undo him—words of love and praise, his name over and over again, until she was the one begging for release, begging for a short break to keep her legs from shaking so badly. She’d made sure he looked her in the face when he fucked her once, just so he could memorize her expression of love in case he had to think of a last thought. It had been so intimate, to have him looking into her eyes the entire time, that Darcy had flushed bright crimson and hasn’t quite recovered as of yet. 

Without even thinking about it, Darcy had begged him just once to put a baby in her halfway through a rough fucking, and the request had made Lupin finish instantly and without warning, surprising both he and Darcy. It had made her hopeful, and though they hadn’t spoken of it again, Darcy had never been more comfortable in his arms than she did that night, feeling as if they were very much thinking the same thing, even if neither one of them wanted to admit it.

“Do you have to go?” she asks when the wind dies down again and releases its wintry grip on her hair. “Stay, and I’ll come home with you.”

“If I don’t return soon, they’ll suspect me,” Lupin answers with a sigh. “Your offer is more tempting than you know, but I’m doing this for us, my love. So we don’t have to live in fear, or in fear for our  _ son _ .”

_ Oh, well done _ , she tells herself, blushing harder. He doesn’t even smile when he says it, which she admires, for Darcy knows he’s not thinking of it as some childish fantasy of hers. But she knows he’s mostly just saying it to justify his decision to leave again.  _ He knows me too well, and knows the words that will work to convince me. _

“When will I see you again?” she asks hopefully, clutching tight to both of his hands. 

“In a few weeks if things go well,” Lupin answers, squeezing tight to her own hands. Noticing the dour look on her face, Lupin frowns. “I’ve had such a wonderful time with you these past two weeks.”

“Why do I feel a  _ but _ coming on . . . ?”

He smiles again, adoringly so. “ _ If _ I don’t come back—”

“Don’t say that.”

“—in my home, in the drawer of my nightstand, is a sealed envelope. You’ll find everything you need inside.” Lupin releases her hands, cradling her face in an attempt to calm her down. It only makes her heart beat faster. “What little money I have will be split between you and Harry once Gringotts has been informed. The cottage will go to you, and all of my possessions. You’ll have to present the letter to the Ministry upon my death.”

Darcy has a hard time breathing, her heart erratic and her mind racing. “What’s going on? Is something going to happen?” 

“No,” he tells her firmly. “I just want to let you know, because I’ve made a few changes and I’ve made you executor. I’m just preparing in case some freak accident befalls me.”

She shivers at the thought of something happening to him, though her first and natural response would be to cry. However, something about the cold weather and this sudden good-bye stops her. Darcy imagines the tears will start as soon as he turns his back on her.

“You’re sure you don’t want me to walk you down?” Darcy asks once more. “I don’t mind. I’ll get a room for the night if you would prefer I don’t come back up.”

Lupin chuckles, bringing her hands to his lips to place soft kisses on her knuckles. “I would prefer for you to go back inside, go up to your room, and warm yourself by a fire.”

“You just want to get rid of me,” she pouts, leaning into his chest and nuzzling against his thick traveling cloak. “Can I stay at your home sometimes while you’re away?”

She can feel his laughter in his chest with her face pressed to it. “Of course you can,” he replies. “You have a key. I gave it to you for a reason.”

“I don’t really need a key to get into your home.”

“It’s the  _ gesture _ behind it that matters,” Lupin continues, smiling against her hair. His arms slip around her. “Tell me how so many of your possessions made their way to my home while I was gone.”

Darcy frowns, glad that he’s unable to see her face heat up again. “I needed storage space, and I didn’t want to bring my things to Grimmauld Place.” Wanting to look upon his face again, despite her raging blush, Darcy lifts her head from his chest. “I thought maybe this weekend I could go to Perth. You know, to see the house for sale.”

“Hopefully not alone . . . ?”

“Do you think Professor McGonagall will go with me?” Darcy smiles at the thought. She can’t see any reason as to why she wouldn’t, but the idea is funny all the same. “I can’t go a stone's throw from the castle without being watched. Remember that next time you kiss me.”

“They should be thankful for a show,” he teases, leaning in and kissing her hard, much harder than she’d expected. Lupin brushes back her hair with a thumb, tucking it behind her ear to no avail. The wind takes hold of it again and makes him laugh. “You realize that there is good reasoning as to why you must be watched?”

Darcy nods. “I tried to sneak off one day, but it didn’t go very well. Gemma ratted me out to Professor Snape—it was only to the market!—and he was furious with me when he did eventually catch up.”

Thankfully, the mention of Snape doesn’t seem to affect him in the slightest. Lupin only laughs, as if the idea of Darcy sneaking off is something innocent and amusing, no doubt something James might have tried to do beneath his—

Darcy’s breath hitches.  _ The Invisibility Cloak _ .  _ I could go anywhere I wanted.  _

“Just be careful,” he warns her, giving her a fleeting look that seems to convey he knows exactly what she’s planning. “Any rules that Albus Dumbledore puts in place are there to protect you, no matter how cumbersome.”

Darcy’s anger flares suddenly, unwarranted. The last thing she wants to be now is angry, so she forces herself to speak calmly. “Please don’t give me this speech right now.”

Lupin hesitates. “I just don’t want anything to happen to you. I want us to have many more happy years together.”

“I could say the same to you,” Darcy replies flatly. “Who’s protecting you while you’re off on your little missions? Who watches over you?” she asks. “You don’t tell me anything, and expect me to trust that everything will be all right. You won’t tell me where it is you go, you won’t tell me what the community is like, you won’t tell me who is there or how many people—”

“In time, my love,” he answers gently, but all it sounds like is that he’s hiding something. “Please, trust me.”

Darcy looks away, afraid that she’ll only cry harder if she continues looking into his face. “Okay.”

Lupin tilts her face up with his index finger. “Smile for me, love.”

She inhales deeply and smiles for him. Darcy takes a step back from him and reaches under her cloak, digging around in her small satchel (conveniently bought during her last trip to the market she so loves) for her camera. Lupin chuckles when she holds it up. Her anger surges again at the sound of it. It makes her feel silly, childish. But all she wants is a photograph of Lupin to mark the last time she ever got to see him, if he doesn’t come back. 

“Smile for me, love,” she teases, raising the camera up to her face. The flash lights up the dark courtyard for a second before the camera forces the picture out into her hand. She gives it a few shakes, eager to see. “ _ Oh _ . . .”

Lupin blushes. “What? Is it monstrous?”

“On the contrary. How could someone so beautiful ever be a monster?” Darcy can’t look away from it, not even when Lupin moves to her side to look with her. It almost reminds her of the first photograph she’d ever taken of him, but that had been two and a half years ago, and it’s only now that she realizes how much he’s changed. 

The flash has made him look pasty, but he’s always been slightly pasty. The pink scars on his face pop out at her, the red of his beard is prevalent, and instead of a boyish and embarrassed smile, he’s wearing a more grave one, forced and resigned, as if it’s the last smile he’s ever going to give. With his hair pushed back out of his eyes, it seems to give way to more gray, looking closer to forty than he really is. Even his posture has changed; his shoulders seem tight and his upper body awkward and stiff, compared to when he’d once been relaxed and at ease around Darcy and her camera. 

“Do you love me?” She asks then, lowering the picture and turning to look at him. “Even after all this time?”

Lupin nods. “Of course I do.” He kisses her lightly, then her cheeks and her forehead. “I’ll see you in a few weeks.” He turns to leave, takes one step away, and then turns back to face her. The grin on his face indicates that he’s done this only for dramatic effect, but she loves him for it. “If, on some off chance that Professor McGongall does happen to escort you to Perth, I suppose I should tell you . . . if you follow the road west out of the city, I think you’ll have no trouble finding the house.”

She cries herself to sleep that night, as expected, but not for the reason she’d thought. 

Three years ago, they’d risked everything for a chance to love each other—their reputations, his job and her place at Hogwarts, and later their friendships. Darcy loves him, and she loves him so much that it hurts sometimes to know that he’s gone and may never come back. And she knows that Lupin loves her, loves her in a way she has never seen him love anything. How can he pick up everything and leave her without a single tear? How can he claim to want a future with her by being so reckless and foolish? He leaves her with nothing but empty promises and a few kisses like he’ll be gone for the weekend and no more. 

But the seed has been planted, and Darcy hates herself for even thinking it.

_ It’s not enough. _

And that thought hurts her the most. 

* * *

In the days that follow, Darcy does all she can to distract herself from the fact that her bed is empty when she wakes. 

Darcy continues teaching the first years (pleased that the novelty has yet to wear off), brews potions that Slughorn needs for upcoming lessons, types away on her typewriter despite Cuffe’s protests that she use a quill and parchment like a ‘normal human being’ (though she does find herself contemplating the meaning of the word  _ normal _ several times over a glass of wine), wonders why in the world she’s writing for the  _ Daily Prophet _ in the first place when her inspiration lacks, plays the piano for an audience of ghosts (and not the Hogwarts kind), attends Quidditch practices, avoids Madam Pomfrey like the plague (who is far too interested in having a friendly chat with her lately), and most of all, debates whether or not to break her promise to Dumbledore and go searching for the Mirror of Erised beneath the Invisibility Cloak. The thing that stops her most is the idea that she’d get lost in that never ending maze of clutter in the Room of Requirement.

It shames her to think that she might be happy to waste away before it. All things considered, wasting away before the picture of happiness might be one of the better ways to die. How terrible would it truly be to die with the face of her son clear in her mind’s eye? Darcy thinks on it so much, dreams of what she’d seen in the mirror so often, that sometimes she finds herself wondering if the mirror is truly showing her the future. Forcing herself to remember that it’s only her deepest desire is the worst form of torture, worse than any spell. To have something dangled in front of her, something she so desperately wants, and yet completely unattainable . . . half of the reflections in the mirror dead, and in Lupin’s arms, a son that mocks her openly and without regret. 

_ What have I done to deserve this _ ?

Darcy doesn’t think she’s a particularly bad person. Sometimes her anger flares and when that happens, she feels out of control and knows that she will say and do things highly inappropriate, but that doesn’t constitute a bad person, right? She isn’t evil . . . she isn’t Voldemort or Bellatrix Lestrange or Theodore Nott. If anyone deserves hardships and suffering, it’s  _ them _ .

She can’t deny that Lupin’s absence takes a monumental toll on her well-being. Without him there to police her drinking and smoking habits, Darcy smells either like whisky or smoke most days, but no one says anything. It’s her way of coping in a situation where she might not cope otherwise. Even the kids seem to sense something off; Harry suddenly allows Darcy to fuss over him a little more in private and without protest, Hermione shows her choice homework and essays that she’s particularly proud of, Ron spends time in her office quietly correcting the answers to his homework that Darcy’s looked over, Ginny shows her spectacular moves on her broomstick during practices. 

A few times in the following weeks, Darcy dines with Barnabas Cuffe, who repeatedly tells her she may not write articles in regards to the current state of the nation (he doesn’t explicitly tell her that it’s because of the Ministry’s involvement with the paper, but Darcy has an idea that’s one of the reasons behind his vehement protests whenever she brings it up), and also looks over some of the other articles she’s written, and not just advice ones—an article on Gemma’s potion and a brief overview of the day-to-day things at Hogwarts, an article about the upcoming Quidditch match at school. They sit together in the back of the Three Broomsticks or sometimes even the Hog’s Head, their heads together as several candles burn in the center of the table, wax creeping ever closer to their pages of notes and discarded suppers. Cuffe teaches her things that he’d learned at Muggle university, proofreading her articles and teaching her a form of shorthand since she doesn’t want to “use a fucking quill and stop acting like a Muggle”. 

Without a private way to communicate with Gemma, Darcy sees very little of her, though Dumbledore often mentions her in passing when Katie Bell or St Mungo’s comes up in conversation. Emily sometimes joins the stands for Quidditch practice, or else meets Darcy with Cuffe down in Hogsmeade, and sometimes Darcy sees her with Tonks, who still hasn’t returned to her usual self. It’s not like there’s a place for she and her friends to gather anymore, anyway. Darcy supposes that Grimmauld Place could still be used as a secret hideaway for she and her friends, but the prospect of returning and spending time there like they used to is something that still doesn’t sit well with her. To return to the place that had been—not only Darcy’s home—Gemma’s secondary home (and probably her favorite one) is something that will take time, and given that the house is hers now, she has all the time in the world. 

Her coin burns less often than she’d like, but it’s still something. She still knows that Lupin is alive, but the heat never lingers. Darcy thinks of him more often, dreaming of him most nights, whether her dreams are soft and wishful, or violent nightmares that set her scars to throbbing painfully in the dead of night. She hopes that Lupin never discovers what thoughts she thinks when she wakes, lying there in an empty bed, wishing he were there with her and, at the same time, wishing he’d never come back to her bed. She recalls the days spent last year at Grimmauld Place, the shaky sense of stability he offered her, the unwillingness to commit, the way he’d made her think that he only wanted her when it was convenient. 

_ Is that all I am to him?  _ she wonders, more often than she cares to admit.  _ Arms to hold him, a bed to rest in . . . a convenience?  _ After all, Darcy thinks she’s offering him a great deal, a place at her side after weeks of waiting with nothing left to her but the hope that he’ll return alive and unbloodied, the same man he’d been when he’d left her. 

_ Would he do the same for me? _

(no, you stupid girl)

_ It hadn’t been enough for him before, and I hadn’t been leaving for weeks on end, then. _

To Darcy’s great pleasure, she even finds the time to bother Snape—or not so much  _ bother _ , but  _ haunt _ the back of his classroom during his fifth year class, watching him teach half-interested students about the basics of dueling and occasionally having a demonstration that cues smiles and laughter, something that—at one time—was completely unheard of. It’s brief laughter, usually extinguished when Snape raises a hand for silence. 

After watching several of his classes, an idea hatches in her head. With a limited amount of free time she’s looking to fill, Darcy corners Snape in his office one Friday afternoon before he heads down to the Great Hall for dinner, not exactly eager to be with Slughorn and hear him talk more of his upcoming Christmas party. She brings Snape’s book with her to return, hoping that he’ll offer her more. 

“You’ve been busy,” he tells her without looking up from his desk, silently telling Darcy that her visit hadn’t been completely a surprise. “Without you badgering me, I’m able to get quite a lot of work done.”

Darcy smiles. It’s an odd feeling. Not that she hasn’t been happy, but she’s had no time to smile as of late. “I finished the book.” She places the copy of  _ Jude the Obscure _ on his desktop, causing him to look up as she slips into the seat opposite him. 

“How was it?”

She thinks for a moment. “Forgive my language, but it was . . . really fucking weird.”

Expecting to be chastised or even just glared at, Darcy’s surprised when his thin lips curl into a small smile. “Well, you’re welcome to borrow another, if you’d like.”

Touched by his generosity, Darcy grins wider. “Thank you.” When Snape returns to filing his things, she continues. “I actually have two questions for you. Requests, more like.”

“Hopefully not for questionable potions or anything that has to do with punishing thieves?” Snape raises his eyebrows, handing her some textbooks. “Put these away for me, would you?”

Darcy takes the books, getting to her feet and sliding them into the empty spaces on the shelves slowly, examining the decaying spines of each of them. “I think you’ll be very glad to hear that my requests are regarding nothing of the sort.”

“Then go on.”

“I thought, maybe . . . I’ve got some free time Tuesday evenings and after watching some of your classes, I thought you might be willing to practice dueling with me.”

“Do you think that wise?” Snape asks, and when Darcy turns around empty-handed, one of his eyebrows is arched and he’s holding out for books for her to put away. 

She laughs sweetly, taking the books again. “I’m not afraid of you, if that’s what you’re asking.” She finds another shelf with empty places. “Besides, who better to ask? I only want to learn to protect myself better. I’m feeling . . . out of practice.”

Snape waits for her to finish. He taps his chin a few times with one of his long, white fingers. With his eyes meeting hers so determinedly, Darcy waits for the unnatural feeling of him penetrating her very thoughts and feelings, but it never comes. He attempts to read her expression, her body language, the smile on her face, but seemingly has no interest in her mind for the time being. “I don’t see the harm in being prepared, I just hope you aren’t thinking of doing anything stupid.”

“If you thought I was going to do something stupid, you would have used Legilimency,” she replies, raising an eyebrow in return. “Or perhaps you’re finally coming to respect my privacy.”

Snape grumbles something softly under his breath. “Maybe you could use Occlumency lessons instead, considering your proclivity to wearing all your emotions on your sleeve. It might do you some good.”

“I’m not going to pretend I couldn’t use it,” she teases. “But I thought, in the current climate, dueling might do me better. You understand, of course.”

“All right,” Snape answers gruffly, as if her question has irritated him or rubbed him wrong. Darcy knows it’s an act—Snape seeming interested in something she is would be far too much a giveaway of how far their relationship has come—but she says nothing. “Tuesday’s after dinner, I see no problem with it. What’s your second request, Darcy?”

“Would you like to come to Perth with me tomorrow?”

Snape blinks in surprise. Whatever he’d expected, it certainly wasn’t this. “I haven’t the time to be traveling the world. I’m a busy man.”

“Nor do I, but I’m making time for myself. Emily says that it’s healthy. And besides, it’s not traveling the world. It’s only Perth.” Darcy frowns. She should have expected this, but she’d thought that maybe—just maybe—Snape would have jumped at the chance to spend time with her outside of Hogwarts. When he still seems reluctant, set in his ways, she presses on. “Come on, Professor. I don’t want to have to ask Professor McGonagall or anyone else . . . I . . . I can’t leave this castle without protection, and I accept that, so I’m asking for  _ your _ protection. Just a day trip, I swear.”

“What’s in Perth that you’re so anxious to see?” Snape narrows his eyes at her. “There’s nothing there that won’t be there a year from now, or twenty years from now. Why must you go tomorrow?”

“Because I’ve already told myself I’m not doing any work tomorrow.” She bites down on her lower lip, rolling it between her teeth. “And there’s a house I want to look at. _ Please _ .”

“A house? For what?”

“You don’t really expect me to live in the castle for the rest of my life, do you?” she scoffs. 

Snape gives her an appraising look. “I was under the impression you already owned a home.”

Darcy scoffs again, this time louder. Her heart deflates slightly, thinking of herself living alone at that awful home, slinking around the corridors with their elf heads and pure blood decor, falling asleep by herself in a bed far too large for her, in her dead godfather’s home. “I’m not living at Grimmauld Place.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’ve seen the place. And I’m not . . . I’m not ready for that, and I don’t think I ever will be.” Darcy purses her lips. The subject is still a sore one. “I want my own home, or one that I can make mine. Hogwarts will never be mine. Grimmauld Place will always be Sirius’.”

“It’s not safe,” Snape protests shortly. “I’ve told you, it’s unwise for us to be seen together. It’s dangerous out there. You should stay here tomorrow. Go pick out a new book and spend the day reading instead.”

Frustrated, Darcy clears her throat and widens her eyes, but Snape immediately looks away.

“Don’t you dare.”

“You’re forcing my hand. I must.”

“Stop  _ doing  _ that.”

“Why? Do my puppy-dog eyes appeal to your soft spot for me?”

He steals a split second's glance at her pleading face, her wide and innocent looking doe eyes, saved just for moments like this, for him. His jaw clenches tight, his cheeks color slightly, and impatience flashes in his cold, dark eyes. “Goddammit, Darcy,” he snaps, his palm slapping the top of his desk. “ _ Fine _ , I'll take you to Perth. Three hours, and no more. Just stop doing that.”

Darcy almost doesn’t believe it. Breathless, she asks, “Really? You’ll take me?”

“Yes,” he sighs. “Now, go. I have work to do.”

* * *

“I thought you could join me in the library tomorrow. Professor McGonagall’s last lesson was fascinating, and I was planning on doing some more research on it.” Hermione elbows her playfully, smiling. “You could bring your typewriter and write something. All those books . . . I’m sure you’d find something interesting.”

“Madam Pince doesn’t let me bring my typewriter to the library. I’ve already tried,” Darcy replies glumly. It had seemed the perfect place to do work with all of the resources in the library, but Madam Pince said the tapping of the keys gave her a terrible headache and threatened to split Darcy’s head in two if she typed one more letter. “Besides, I’ll be out of town tomorrow. I’m going to Perth.”

Hermione looks absolutely speechless, unsure of how to answer this response. Darcy doesn’t blame her. “Why are you going to Perth? Is it for the  _ Prophet _ ?”

“No,” Darcy laughs, long legs taking the steps two at a time while Hermione attempts to keep up. “Remus mentioned a house that he thought I’d appreciate, so I’m just going to take a look. A mental health day, if you will. Get away from these mountains for a bit.”

“Well, I’m sure you can’t just  _ go _ to Perth,” Hermione retorts in her usual manner. The sheer audacity of it all doesn’t even offend Darcy anymore. “You know you’re not supposed to go off on your own. Dumbledore will be upset you’ve ignored all he’s done for you.”

“Name one thing Dumbledore’s ever done for me that was actually what I wanted and not stupid.”

Hermione purses her lips. The answer doesn’t come easily to her lips and Darcy raises her eyebrows expectantly, lingering on the platform between staircases as Hermione reaches it, as well. They both look hard at each other for a few moments. “You shouldn’t say things like that,” she finally says. “You know that Professor Dumbledore has your best interests at heart. It’s all been to keep you and Harry safe.”

“Listen, I’m not going to be forty and still subject to Dumbledore’s stupid rules, even if it means a chance I’m a little bit safer,” Darcy protests, feeling ill-tempered already. Snape’s promise to take her to Perth had really been the first thing to lighten her mood since Lupin’s departure, and now Hermione sees fit to ruin it with all of her talk about Dumbledore’s stupid rules. It isn’t fair, and Darcy knows that it’s a childish thought as soon as she thinks it, but it doesn’t change how she feels, childish or no. “For all of his and your talk of me letting Harry go like some idiot mother, Dumbledore sure has a hard time letting me go off into the real world. It’s like he can’t comprehend that I’m a capable adult who realizes that the world is dangerous.”

“Just because you realize the world is dangerous doesn’t stop you from being reckless,” Hermione continues, her cheeks slightly pink, her nose in the air. 

“Don’t start talking about the Ministry now, Hermione. You went, too! If anyone should have gone, it should have been me instead.”

“I wasn’t going to say anything about the Ministry!” Hermione crosses her arms over her chest protectively, her pride clearly injured. 

“Then what were you going to say?” Darcy mimics her, folding her arms across her chest, as well. 

Hermione blushes in earnest this time, looking away so quickly from Darcy that it startles her. 

“Oh, something about the amount of arrogance involved in your leisure trips and your refusal to obey any authority figure within a fifty kilometer radius. Or, that’s what she tells Harry and I, anyway.”

Both Darcy and Hermione look quickly towards the staircase to find Ron slinking up the steps like a cat, surprisingly graceful in all of his lanky and awkward splendor. He’s smiling toothily, seemingly oblivious to the conversation at hand, and looks to be forcibly keeping his eyes on Darcy as if she’s the only person there.

“Hope she isn’t giving you a hard time, Darcy,” Ron continues when he approaches her side, still refusing to look at Hermione. “Harry said you were going to Perth tomorrow. Must be nice. I’d do anything to have just one little Hogsmeade trip tomorrow.”

Darcy, however, turns slowly to face Hermione again, blazing with unwarranted anger. Her cheeks are red as a ripe tomato, soft brown eyes looking down at her shoes. “I don’t see what business it is of yours what I do in my free time,” she snaps at Hermione. Perhaps it’s unfair, but Darcy cannot keep her rage inside, and it tumbles out of her without warning. “I’m not some sixteen-year-old kid, confined to the castle due to school rules. I’m an adult, a teacher, old enough to go where I want on my own without needing someone to be discussing it behind my back.”

“For the record,” Ron interrupts, clearly not comprehending the offense he and Hermione have given—or maybe he’s trying to diffuse Darcy before she goes off, “I don’t think you’re arrogant.”

Darcy spares him a glare before speaking directly to Hermione again. “Dumbledore’s word isn’t law, a lesson that maybe he himself might stand to learn. Besides, if you stopped assuming everything, I’d have told you I’m not going without protection.”

Ron chortles. “Don’t tell me Hagrid’s allowed Grawp to go with you.”

“It’s Snape, isn’t it?” Hermione asks sharply, regaining her composure, but still with a slight blush. “Snape is taking you to Perth?”

It’s Darcy’s turn to flush furiously. 

“Oh, good. I hear Perth has some wonderful cemeteries where he can bury your body after he’s killed you.”

“ _ Ron _ !”

Ron looks too smug for his own good. “Have you forgotten that Snape’s a Death Eater?”

Darcy looks around quickly to make sure they’re alone. The last thing she needs is for Snape to be lurking around, eavesdropping on her conversation. “He  _ was _ a Death Eater, yes,” she agrees. “But he isn’t any more. I trust him with my life, and so should you. He’s done nothing but look out for the three of you, even if he hasn’t been forthcoming about it.”

“Can I trade him in for someone else?” Ron asks, and he smiles. Darcy finds it difficult to stay mad at him when she knows his teasing is all in good spirits. “Come on, Darcy. We all know that Snape is only good to you for one reason.”

“And what’s that?” Darcy resumes her defensive stance, cheeks heating up even more. 

Ron scoffs. “He’s in love with you, isn’t he? How do you stand it?”

It sounds almost accusatory, but Darcy doesn’t rise to the bait, paranoid that Ron is trying to get her to confess something, to confess that she cares for Snape more than she should. 

“He’s the only one that would take me,” she lies, making sure to look them both in the eyes. 

Hermione and Ron exchange a second’s glance, one that makes Darcy rather uneasy. Their sudden camaraderie is uncharacteristic for two people so often at odds with each other, especially when they’d just been on two opposing sides.

“I agree with you, Darcy, that we should trust Snape. Professor Dumbledore says we should, and I . . . see no problem coming to a mutual understanding that . . . in the long run, Professor Snape is . . . an almost . . . admirable . . .”

“Spit it out, Hermione. Don’t give yourself an aneurysm on Professor Snape’s behalf,” Darcy retorts sharply. 

“You should still be careful about what you tell him,” Hermione continues more confidently and fluidly. She lowers her voice to a breathy whisper that’s hardly audible. “You know the company he keeps, or rather . . . the company he’s forced to keep and the events that he’s forced to partake in.”

Darcy shoots Ron a cold look, as if to figure out if this is what he believes, as well. While Ron’s ears turn pink, Darcy thinks his feelings about Snape are far less complicated. “You think Professor Snape would willingly divulge private information about me to Death Eaters?”

“Not willingly, no,” Hermione counters apologetically. “But there are other ways of coercing information from someone, as Harry learned last year during his private lessons with Snape.”

Darcy scoffs. “Snape isn’t a fifteen-year-old kid. He’s a very accomplished Occlumens. If he thought my private information could be compromised, he’d insist I tell him nothing.”

“But that’s the thing . . . would he?” When Darcy seems unconvinced, Hermione plunges on recklessly. “You told us that Dumbledore said Snape would likely act cold towards you, would likely ignore you, and he hasn’t. He’s seen you whenever you please, spoken to you whenever you please . . . maybe Ron has a point about him. Maybe he’s being selfish and not thinking about what could happen if someone was able to get this information out of you? All I’m saying is that you should be careful what you divulge to him, friend or not.”

“Professor Snape would never betray me.” Somehow, the words seem practiced. They’re spoken only half-confidently, a hopeful wish and nothing more. 

“You've a lot of confidence in a man who’s built a comfortable life here  _ because _ of betrayal,” Hermione notes.

_ He wouldn’t, not willingly _ , she thinks.  _ But he knows me. He knows my biggest secret, my greatest love, my hopes and dreams, my fears. He knows everything that Voldemort could use to his advantage. _

Darcy tenses. “Get back to Gryffindor Tower. It’s almost curfew.”

* * *

Darcy decides to forego her traveling cloak for the day and stick to her jacket, trying to look as less suspicious as possible. No doubt Snape will choose to dress normally, liking earning them a couple of odd looks. She doesn’t quite keep up with the latest Muggle fashions like Emily does, but she is more than positive Snape isn’t close to fashionable in any sense of the word, nor can she really picture him dressed like a Muggle to begin with. 

She brushes her dark red hair until it shines bright in the morning sunshine that filters through the large windows in her bedroom, every hair in place, looking as beautiful as her mother’s. Half of her wonders if there’s anything to be done about her face—as much pride as James’ features give her at times, Darcy can’t help but think Snape might take offense looking at her sometimes. She’s no fool, and she knows a lot of his feelings for her stem from his infatuation with her mother, but the idea of Snape looking on her with disdain and resentment because of her nose or her mouth or the shape of her face makes her stomach churn. Once, she would have been glad to have Snape hate her, just to give her reason to hate him back, but now . . . she would be heartbroken if Snape had disliked her like he once had so long ago (did he really ever?). 

_ I am my mother’s daughter _ . For years she’s heard people—sometimes strangers—speak of her mother as if she were some kind of goddess. Kind, they called her. Beautiful, they said. Humble and just and loving. Soft traits meant for a woman, always perfect, always raised on a pedestal for her sacrifice (what will people say about  _ me _ ?). People had compared her to her mother constantly, to the point where Darcy would look at herself in a mirror and see Lily because she  _ wanted _ to, so badly.

The comparisons to her mother seem less and less these days. She’d heard much more about James, probably due to the fact that she is—or  _ was _ , in Sirius’ case—very close to the people who knew him best. Snape would disagree with them all. Darcy has no false hopes about Snape ever saying something kind about James. 

Cruel, Snape had called him before, arrogant and self-serving and a bully. 

Brilliant, Sirius would often tell her, brilliant and witty and brave above all. 

Fair, Lupin had told her once, clever and reckless and hungry for adventure. 

Dwelling on non-existent memories of her father, Darcy heads down to the courtyard, too sick to her stomach to touch any food or even drink any water. It’s a bitter cold outside, but there’s no wind and the sun is shining, causing her to squint against the snow on the ground, a few feet from the last storm. It had frozen the lake over and she’d skated by herself late at night while the castle slept, wrapped in her cloak and scarves, wondering if Snape had been keeping an eye on her from some dark window high above her. 

Darcy sits on a cold, stone bench, making footprints in the snow as she waits for Snape. After nearly fifteen minutes of students escaping the castle for the picturesque grounds, throwing her curious looks, her heart sinks. Snape isn’t among them, and for a moment she thinks he’s changed his mind and hasn’t bothered to tell her. Accepting defeat, Darcy gets to her feet and makes her way inside. It’s not much warmer in the entrance hall with the doors thrown wide open to let in the cold air, but she can always start a fire in her room, take a nap by the flames, maybe even dream of James, some repressed memory she’s long forgotten . . . just like the memory of Sirius had come back to her . . . 

Looking down at her feet, she stumbles into someone, making her stagger. Snape’s hand darts out to catch her before she falls backwards, steadying her before letting go. His grip is a vice, and Darcy wonders if he’s already in a foul mood. The last thing she needs is for her view of this pretty house to be tainted by Snape’s cruelty. 

“You’re late,” she tells him flatly, frowning. “I’ve been waiting fifteen minutes.”

His traveling cloak is already wrapped about him, covering whatever he’s chosen to wear beneath it. Snape looks about the entrance hall, scowling at the many students leaving breakfast. “This is unwise. This is  _ dangerous _ . Perhaps we shouldn’t go.”

“What? No, you already promised me—”

“If someone sees us—”

“Why would there be a Death Eater in Perth?” she hisses, stepping closer to make sure no one can hear. “Is there some secret headquarters that I’m not aware of?”

“Don’t talk so loudly,” he urges, almost sounding desperate. Snape looks at her for a long time. His concern seems genuine enough, not spiteful or regretting agreeing to take her. He has good reason to be fearful—Darcy hasn’t really given much thought to the danger Snape might be in, given his unusual relationship with a Potter sibling. 

“Does the Headmaster know that we’re going?” she asks suddenly. If Dumbledore knows about their planned excursion, surely he would make sure they’re safe? 

“The Headmaster is not here to receive any messages,” Snape replies, and his tone is bitter. “I’ve no doubt in my mind that, if he were here, you wouldn’t make it to the boundaries of the castle without being dragged back inside.” As the thicket of students begins to thin again, he purses his lips, thinking hard. “We’ll go down to Hogsmeade separately. I’ll go, and you meet me behind the Hog’s Head. We’ll leave from there.”

Darcy furrows her brow.  _ He’s afraid _ , she thinks,  _ but not for himself. For me.  _ She reaches up to touch him instinctively, unsure of where her hand was going to land, but thinks better of it. “Don’t be stupid. We’ll go together.”

Snape’s own hands clamp down on her shoulders, fingers digging into her skin through the many layers of clothing. “Please,” he begs her, giving her a gentle shake. “I’ll go down first.”

“Okay,” she whispers, surprised at his plea. “But I still think it’s stupid.”

By the time the both of them are behind the shady Hog’s Head, Darcy’s heart is pumping hard with excitement. “Do you know where we’re going?” Snape asks her. When Darcy mouths soundlessly, blushing when she can’t answer his question, he exhales through his hooked nose. “I’ve been to Perth before. I can get us there, but the rest is up to you.” He holds out his arm for her to take. “Three hours, like I said.”

“Okay.” She takes hold of Snape’s arm  firmly. 

He pauses before Disapparating. “You’re sure?”

“I’m not the one with any reservations.” Darcy looks up at him, smiling. “I’ll be all right. You’re with me.”

Something in his face softens. “Let’s go.”

Though she’s no stranger to Disappartion, it continues to disorient her  _ and _ amaze her. The ability to travel to so many places that are so far away within the span of a few seconds is something that Darcy can hardly believe. For all the grief magic has brought her and her family, she cannot deny that it is amazing in its own right. With hardly any hassle, and for no money at all, Snape brings Darcy from the back of a pub to the middle of a cemetery, large oak trees planted randomly around the plots and tombstones, creating a slight barrier between them and their new destination, their leaves having fallen already, buried beneath the layer of snow on the ground. Beyond the trees, bordering the graveyard, is an iron fence; a tall church built from stone looms over the tallest trees, casting a dark shadow over her. 

The sounds of the city are all around her, cars in the distance, their tires kicking up snow and slush. It’s an exciting noise, one so different from the sometimes lonely silence on the Hogwarts grounds or the pitter-patter of footsteps and murmur of conversation that litter the streets of Hogsmeade. Even Privet Drive is a relatively quiet suburb, with mostly only local traffic coming and going down the criss-crossing streets. 

The air is different, easier to breathe, not the thin, mountain air of Hogwarts. And it’s warmer, so warm that Darcy’s neck grows damp with sweat and she immediately strips off her jacket and scarves, stuffing them into the small, enchanted bag and making it none the heavier. She holds it out for Snape. “You can put your cloak in here, if you’d like.”

He eyes her bag for a moment before undoing the clasp on his cloak and folding it, unlike Darcy who had just shoved her things inside without a care. “Thank you.”

“ _ Oh _ ,” Darcy whispers, blushing a bright pink when Snape’s eyes snap to hers. 

“What?” he hisses. 

Darcy had expected black, and Snape has definitely delivered. But he has shed the professional dress he normally wears, the strangely victorian looking frock that he prefers that does absolutely nothing for him. Instead, he’s wearing a thick woolen sweater, stretched tight across his chest. 

“Nothing,” she says quickly, averting her eyes.  _ I’m just not used to seeing him looking like a . . . Muggle _ . “You look . . . nice.”

Snape blushes in return, straightening up and brushing off whatever dirt and snow has accumulated upon his arms. “Thank you.” He offers Darcy his arm and she takes it without hesitation, a gesture that had once unnerved her, now one of the biggest comforts available to her, a sign of friendship, no matter how twisted and unusual. 

He leads her out of the cemetery and down a narrow cobblestone road, silent all the while. The sounds of traffic and the smell of the city loom nearer as they approach a main street, the scent of fresh-baked bread mingling with gasoline, and the smell of the river wafting over it all. It’s very distinct to her, the river, just like the smell of the lake at Hogwarts. 

Darcy gasps at the sheer size of the surrounding buildings that make up the city, the tall roofs of the cathedrals, bridges that span the width of the river, houses far older than any at Privet Drive, stones bearing the signs of winds from hundreds of years ago. The snow makes it picturesque, almost, settling on roofs and sidewalks, framing the fronts of shops and houses. Darcy fumbles in her bag for her camera, taking a picture to remind her of the day her breath had been stolen away for the first time in months. All because of a city. 

Cars roll down the street in droves, even on a Saturday, cabs swimming among them. People are out walking, some with shopping bags and fat purses, others with dogs on leashes, some strolling with lovers or friends. The sky is a pale blue, sunlight reflecting off the surface of the water and what untouched layer of snow remains, making the city seem bright and sparkling.

Snape seems to take notice of her enthusiasm as they walk down the street, no destination in mind. Darcy’s fingernails tighten in his arm. “It’s only Perth,” he grumbles. “It’s nothing compared to the ancient cities of Greece. Thebes . . . Rome . . . Athens . . .”

“I wish I could see them,” Darcy says softly, smiling up at him. It feels glued to her face, not the sort of forced thing she usually gives. “They must be beautiful to have made you so sentimental.”

“There is still so much to be learned from the ancient cities of our people. There are not enough magic historians in the world to uncover all of the secrets that have been left behind, so much magic forgotten throughout the centuries, knowledge that will never be uncovered.” Snape pauses, gazing off into the distance as if determinedly avoiding looking at her.

“I didn’t know that you were quite the traveler.”

“It was a . . . business trip.”

Darcy glances quickly at him, recognizing the meaning behind his words without needing an explanation. “Do you think there are witches and wizards living here in Perth?”

“No doubt, especially being so far north, close to Hogwarts. We must be careful, lest someone recognize you . . . or me.”

“All right, well, Remus said to take the west road out of town, following the river, and we’ll see the house.” Spotting a telephone booth across the street, Darcy releases her grip on Snape’s arm. “Would you excuse me a moment?”

It isn’t until Darcy’s halfway across the street that Snape calls after her, but she ignores him, slipping inside the booth and reaching in her bag for a few coins. She drops in the coin slot and dials the phone number she’d committed to memory just this morning. The phone rings several times and Darcy glances over her shoulder to find Snape lingering just outside the booth, watching people pass with a scrutinizing expression. 

“ _ Hello _ ?”

Darcy goes to speak at the sound of a man’s voice, but the words get caught in her throat, her heart thumping loudly against her chest. She wishes she could call her own father, hear his voice on the other end of the telephone, tell him that she loves him.

“ _ Hello _ ?”

“I . . .”

“ _ Who is this _ ?”

She clears her throat. “It’s me, Mr. Tuttle. It’s Darcy.”

“ _Oh, Darcy! What a fantastic surprise,_ ” he replies, and it sounds like the truth. It makes her smile. “ _Lena was so thrilled when we heard your message the last time you called. She was so sorry we hadn’t been home to answer._ _I hope you’re feeling better._ ”

“A little bit,” she says, not quite a complete lie. “I’m calling from Perth now. I’m in Scotland.”

“ _ What a wonderful place. I’m so glad to hear from you _ .”

“Thanks. I’m glad that you answered.” Darcy decides not to tell him that she’s grateful to hear his voice again, not wanting to overstep. 

“ _ Listen, I’m afraid Lena’s out for a few hours, but I’ll tell her you called _ .”

“I would appreciate that. I’m not sure when I’ll be able to call again. I’m using a phone booth.”

“ _ She’s gotten so much done on her play. If you give me your address, I’ll have her send you a copy to read _ .”

“Er—that’s all right, Mr. Tuttle. I’ve been doing a lot of traveling, so I . . . I don’t really have a permanent address as of late.”

“ _ Well, let me offer another solution, then _ .” She wonders if Mr. Tuttle knows that she’s lying so baldly. It makes her feel guilty. “ _ Lena and I were discussing Christmas the other day, and . . . well, we thought it might be nice, if you have the time, for you to come and visit with us for a few days over the holiday. I know that you probably wouldn’t want to stay with your aunt and uncle, but if you’d like, we could clear out our guest room for you _ .”

Darcy pauses, chewing on her lower lip. “That’s a very kind offer, but—”

“ _ Lena’s interested in meeting this boy you’re seeing. He’s more than welcome to come with you if he isn’t busy for the holidays _ .”

“Oh—! Well, he’s been traveling, as well, and he . . . see, I don’t know if he’ll be home for Christmas and . . . I’m not really sure, Mr. Tuttle. I’d love to, but . . .”

“ _ I understand. _ ” Mr. Tuttle’s voice softens. “ _ I hope he’s treating you well, whoever he is. It must be so difficult to be so far apart, especially during Christmas _ .”

“It is.” Darcy looks quickly at Snape again, making sure he hasn’t left her. His head turns at the same time and their eyes meet for a split second. “Listen, I should go. My time is going to run out soon and I’ve a few things to do today.”

“ _ It was wonderful to hear from you _ .” 

“You, too.” Darcy hesitates again, surprised that Mr. Tuttle hasn’t yet hung up. “Mr. Tuttle, I’m actually in Perth looking at a house, and . . . I’ll call you if I like it and maybe you and Mrs. Tuttle could come visit me sometime.”

“ _ I think that sounds just fine _ .” Mr. Tuttle chuckles. “ _ Call soon, Darcy, all right _ ?”

“Yes, sir. Bye.”

Darcy hangs up the phone, standing quite still inside the phone booth for a few moments. The conversation has unsettled her and made her dizzy—a relationship built on lies, just like hers had been with Gavin, and it makes her feel sick. The knowledge that she’ll never be able to make healthy relationships with Muggles . . . Snape would only laugh at her, would question why she wanted to be friends with them in the first place . . . 

She rests her forehead against the telephone, not wanting to cry here. It was supposed to be a fun trip, a trip away from the confines of the castle, a trip to visit a home that, in another life, could be hers. But of course it was ruined, ruined because she can’t look at or see or talk to anyone that doesn’t make her cry. Darcy holds her hands up to her face to try and stem the tears before they get too bad.

The door to the telephone booth squeaks open, and Darcy feels Snape’s side press against her back as he closes it. A gentle hand comes to rest on the nape of her neck. “Are you all right?” he asks in her ear. “Who was that you were talking to? What’s going on?”

“It doesn’t matter.” Darcy stands up straighter, shaking him off, wiping away the last of the tears and trying to push past Snape, but he doesn’t budge, blocking the way. “Let me out.”

“Darcy, tell me.” It is not a command, nor a forceful request. His voice is soft, and she looks up into Snape’s eyes, almost daring him to read her like he always does. “Tell me.”

She doesn’t break their gaze, not wanting to seem weak to him. “You wouldn’t care.”

Snape holds out an arm to keep Darcy from sneaking past. It only presses them closer together and makes her blush. “Are you sure about that?”

“You’d only laugh at me.”

“I’ve never laughed at you.”

It’s true, though Darcy’s sure it’s only true because laughter is not a thing that comes very easily or naturally to him. “Please don’t make me say it.”

“Darcy . . .” Snape touches her shoulder. “Tell me what’s troubling you.”

The words are pulled from her unwillingly, but it feels rather good to say them. “I miss my dad.”

She watches very carefully as Snape’s lips purse, his jaw tightens and he grinds his teeth so loudly that it seems to reverberate inside of her head. His eyes are fighting some terribly conflict: his desire to hate James and everything positive associated with him, and his desire to not hurt Darcy more than necessary. It’s the first time that Darcy has ever felt able to really understand him, to know what he’s thinking, and she’s sure he must be considering his next words very carefully to have let his guard fall without his knowing. 

Finally, after a long time of silence, Snape’s hand moves from her shoulder to her cheek, lingering only for a moment. “Come on,” he says, just as quietly as before. He opens the door with another loud squeak, allowing her to leave without complaint this time. “Isn’t there some house you’d like to see?”

“Yes.”

“Come. I’m quite interested in seeing it, as well.”

Darcy hesitates, wishing he’d at least smile at her or  _ something _ . But when she smiles weakly up at him, something tells her that, maybe, keeping silent about James is enough.


	23. Chapter 23

“Are the two of you looking to buy right away?”

“No, we’re not . . . it’s for her.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to assume . . . is she your daughter, then?”

“. . . yes, my . . . my daughter.”

Darcy gazes out the window of the second floor bedroom, upon the fenced in yard in the back, framed by a dying garden. The voices float into the empty room from the bottom of the staircase, echoing throughout the entire home.

The house is a pretty and almost nostalgic-looking from the outside, but the inside needs fixing and Darcy thinks it’s too much space. Without any furniture inside, it’s lonely and intimidating, something that couldn’t possibly be made into a real home. It’s how she feels about Grimmauld Place, and she wants an atmosphere like at Lupin’s own modest cottage. The intimacy is lost in this maze of small rooms and wide windows, chipped paint and peeling carpet. She’s sure it needs other work that she isn’t as knowledgeable about, and now that she thinks on it, she isn’t quite sure how good Lupin is with handy household spells . . . or manual labor, for that matter.

Some of the rooms she had tried to picture—she’d have a piano in _this_ room, and a tea room in _there_ , the sitting area with a television _here_ , and then she’d run out of rooms. Four bedrooms seems excessive. She and Lupin would share one, and in a perfect world, a son would sleep in another. But Darcy knows it’s not a perfect world, and there would be no reason to keep three guest rooms in a house housing only two people. The kitchen is small and cramped and cut off from other rooms, the fireplace seems small and barely used, and there’s a deliberate hole in the wall in the third bedroom—everything she can find to possibly hate about the house, she hates passionately.

The only thing Darcy likes about it is the garden out back. The first time she looks upon it, she pictures the flowerbed in the springtime—colorful, all different sizes, blooming from the dark mulch that she would lay on a lazy Sunday, much like she and Aunt Petunia would do, finishing the day with blisters on their hands and sunburn on their necks and shoulders and faces, always pouring themselves a tall glass of cold lemonade. Darcy pictures herself waking to the sight of a beautiful garden every morning, or sitting in the yard with breakfast and reading the paper.

Then she pictures a vegetable garden instead. All kinds—potatoes, strawberries, carrots, corn, maybe even pumpkins to harvest when the leaves turned those pretty colors she always liked. Maybe Darcy could plant an apple tree, or some herbs—mint and dill. And with her herbs she could even plant ingredients for potions, like Valerian or Lavender if she needed a quick Sleeping Draught, or the more adventurous Fanged Geranium.

“Darcy?” The knock on the open door is swift and curt and only meant to be a courtesy. “Are you ready to go?”

“Yes.” Darcy turns away from the window forcibly, facing Snape and the squat seller hovering at his shoulder. “The house was lovely. Thank you, but we should be going now.”

“Of course,” the woman answers, gesturing for them to leave through the door first. “Let me show you to the front door.”

Darcy leads them all down the stairs, trying not to show her disappointment plain on her face to the seller. Maybe Lupin knew nothing of the inside—maybe he’d just seen the outside. In his defense, the outside of the house is exactly what Darcy’s dreamed of before, down to the very color of it. But she hopes that Lupin hadn’t thought she’d actually like the inside. She likes to think he knows her better than that.

Upon closing the front door behind them, Darcy walks slightly ahead of Snape, quiet and sullen. It’s gotten colder outside, and she retrieves her scarf.

“What did you think?” Snape asks, opening the fence gate to allow her passage.

“I hated it,” she confesses truthfully. “I wish we’d never have come here.”

“I wish you had adopted that attitude before we’d left,” Snape sighs, though it seems less out of frustration and more one of exasperation. “Though, I confess . . . you seem unhappy. I thought a trip away from the castle would change that.”

“I thought it would, too, but I guess I’ve had too much on my mind.” Darcy avoids the fresh piles of slush on the road, looking down at the long stretch of sidewalk remaining. They’d taken a cab out of town, deciding not to walk the entirety of the way, but Darcy doesn’t know if she’s prepared for another car ride yet, stuffed in the backseat with Snape. “Maybe you should just take me home.”

It’s surprising to her that Snape does not immediately hold her to him, disappearing from the middle of the street. It seems unusual for him to be so reluctant to return her to the safety of the castle, and of course he would feel this way the one time she so desperately wishes to go back, to . . . to what? To drown herself in depressing thoughts while lying in bed instead of enjoying the fresh air? To be alone instead of with someone she cares about?

“Was it so . . . utterly terrible?” Snape asks again, in such a forced way that it makes her cringe.

“I don’t know,” she answers again. “I suppose the garden would be nice when it’s not winter.” It’s quiet for a little while, the snow crunching beneath her boots. “I have a difficult time picturing a future for myself while there are so many different outcomes possible. I want to believe that I’ll have the happy ending I want so badly . . . a shared home with a husband who loves me. But lately, it . . . doesn’t seem likely.”

His answer is quick, disguised as casual with a clear of his throat. “No?”

Darcy side eyes him warily. “I’m going to ask you something, and I want you to tell me the truth.”

Snape scowls down at her. “Every time I tell you the truth, you never seem to enjoy it.”

“Right, you’d just prefer to not give me an answer at all half the time. Keeping me in the dark is better than lying to me, isn’t it?” Darcy asks sharply, spitting the words out in a hurry. “It’s pathetic that I have to trust you to give me the truth when you hardly ever oblige me in the first place.”

“Spit it out, Darcy, whatever it is you are simply _burning_ to ask.”

So she does. “What do you think the chances are that Remus succeeds in his mission?”

“Very little,” Snape answers, with enough confidence that Darcy believes him. “Fenrir Greyback has already beaten him to most of the packs. All he’s likely to get will be the sick and the hungry and the poor, the ones who truly believe they have a place in this world.”

“But they do,” she counters, thinking of Liam, thinking of Greyback. “Some of them do.” Wanting to dispel the topic of werewolves before Snape becomes too invested in the conversation. “I need to get a dress while I’m here.”

“Excuse me?” Snape scoffs. “I thought I was taking you back to the castle. There are plenty of places to buy a dress in Hogsmeade. What do you absolutely need one for, anyway?”

“For Slughorn’s Christmas party,” she replies quickly, unable to keep a blush from rising to her cheeks. “Besides, I don’t like the dresses at Hogsmeade.”

Snape heaves a great sigh. “Right—I forgot it was you I was speaking with for a moment. Surely you’re in the market for something more . . . Muggle-esqe?”

“What does it matter to you what sorts of dresses I prefer?”

“It doesn’t.”

In truth, he’s absolutely right. Darcy had visited a few boutiques in Hogsmeade during the last few weeks, appalled at some of the choices offered to her. One sales witch had shown her a flaming red, enchanted gown that had seemingly faux phoenix feathers sewn into the outdated shoulder pads that burned throughout the night and Darcy would only avoid catching fire by making sure to cast a complicated spell on herself before going out (and that hadn’t even been as bad as the thousand Galleon price tag on it), and after she had politely declined that dress, was offered a much cheaper five-hundred Galleon dress that was made with silk and magic, a beautiful silver color, but that would have had trouble covering both her breasts and the—quite possibly—more important part, the very private heat between her legs.

After escaping that terrible boutique, Darcy had visited another, less expensive one. That sales witch had originally tried to press a scarlet gown with flashing embroidery in the shape of a lightning bolt (Darcy had only looked at the witch, unamused and prepared to walk out), and even convinced Darcy to try on a soft purple gown that was likely designed by a witch or wizard who had never left their house before and had absolutely no idea what a normal person wore from the 1850’s until now. The fabric around her neck had choked and itched her, the sleeves were long and made her sweat, and when the witch had offered to help Darcy into a corset, Darcy had quite promptly taken her leave, and which had resulted in Emily having to withdraw a rather significant amount of money from Darcy’s own vault in order to exchange it for enough Muggle money to get a decent dress.

However, Darcy has no desire to recount her terrible experience looking for gowns in Hogsmeade to Snape, and despite his protests, Darcy is walking into a boutique not fifteen minutes later, with Snape trailing after her rather reluctantly, looking very much as if he knows that he does not belong here.

It’s this experience that solidifies Darcy’s appreciation for Muggles and their love and appreciation for subtlety in a way that witches and wizards, more often than not, completely lack. The saleswoman doesn’t press on her any flamboyant dresses that would surely draw more unwanted attention than necessary. There are no flashing dresses, nor feathery ones, nor singing ones, nor ones dedicated to her brother’s near death experience. Darcy tells the woman that she has scars on her shoulder she’d like to cover and is led to the back of the shop, where several dresses are picked out with care and respect towards Darcy’s wishes. With Snape standing guard just out front after likely being suffocated by the severity of the store, Darcy feels much more comfortable trying them on.

Darcy is considering herself in a tall mirror when someone steps out of a dressing room to rejoin their friends or family. She watches from the corner of her eye, smoothing down the emerald dress she’s wearing and feeling rather inadequate at first. The woman dressed in a beautiful and complicated looking white dress cannot be any older than Darcy, absolutely radiant, glowing with happiness and confidence. It takes Darcy a moment to realize that the girl is wearing a wedding dress, strapless and revealing smooth and unscarred shoulders, a glittering ring on her left hand that catches the light and throws it back into Darcy’s face.

The saleswoman helping Darcy notices her staring and smiles. “She’s getting married in two weeks,” she explains in Darcy’s ear. “We’ve been working non-stop on the alterations. Everything is done by hand. It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Darcy breathes, blushing when the bride-to-be’s eyes settle on her for a split second. “It’s beautiful.”

An older woman watching the girl twirl and laugh carelessly must be her mother, and she’s laughing along with her daughter, tears in her eyes and her hand pressed over her heart. Darcy lowers her eyes, a weight suddenly crushing her chest. When she looks at herself in the mirror again, all she can think of is every imperfection that someone might notice—the hardly-there scars over her exposed chest from where Lupin has bitten her, the sharp lines of her body beneath the fabric, the boyish look about her that she still has yet to come completely to terms with. Goosebumps rise on her arms unbidden, bewildering Darcy, and a chill settles in her bones. Looking at the woman in the wedding dress makes her heart feel empty and gives her thoughts she doesn’t want to dwell on now.

“Wedding bells in your future?” the saleswoman asks, unknowing, unaware, but kindly.

“No,” Darcy replies, unable to look at herself in the mirror any longer. “I don’t think so.”

Even if there were, Darcy has a hard time shaking the mother’s look from her mind’s eye. In another life, that would have been Lily, looking upon her grown daughter with pride and swelling with emotion and pure joy and love. In another life, James would have walked her down the aisle to some unknown husband, someone that wouldn’t be Lupin. But she’ll never know that joy, and neither will her parents. James and Lily will never see Darcy get married, and some other person’s father will have to walk her down the aisle, while someone else’s mother cries for her during the ceremony.

Without warning, Darcy is assaulted with the recollection of what she’d seen in the Pensieve that day with Snape—her mother, only a child, barricading the bedroom door with her own children huddling together in the crib, and Voldemort’s twisted and ugly face looking down at her after murdering her mother, the way the entire house had shaken with the force of his rebounded spell and collapsed, trapping her beneath it, Hagrid’s oversized hands forcibly pulling her off Sirius’ chest . . . Sirius . . . falling through the Veil . . . never coming back . . .

“Miss? Miss, are you—should I call an ambulance?”

“What?”

Darcy looks up into the mirror again. Her face is drained of color, a sickly looking gray, and a few droplets of blood come from her left nostril. Humiliated, she wipes it with the back of her hand, but to no avail. She covers her nose and mouth with her hand.

“Um,” Darcy begins again, clearing her throat and ready to slip back into her warm sweater and run away forever. “This one is fine. I’ll buy it.”

“Why don’t you sit down?”

“No, thank you. Can you please sell me the dress now?”

“Your nose—”

“I’m fine,” Darcy snaps. “Ring up the dress and I’ll be right out.”

The woman seems wary, but as she hurries off to the front register, Darcy notices the wedding party has been watching with startled expressions. She sneaks into the dressing room and quickly slips the dress off, pulling her sweater over her head and staining it with blood, Darcy realizes that it doesn’t help at all the cold that has settled in her. It’s icy and biting, and Darcy’s heart sinks into her stomach. She hurries and pays for the dress, running outside only for Snape’s fingers to curl around her upper arm hard enough to bruise.

“Something’s wrong,” he murmurs, looking around wildly. When Snape’s eyes flick to her face, it takes him a moment to register what’s on her face. “What happened?”

As Darcy stuffs her dress into her enchanted bag, she tries to push the image of her dead mother from her mind. She wipes the drying blood off with the back of her sleeve. “I couldn’t stop thinking about my parents, and I . . . I remembered that night, but I never wanted to . . .”

Snape purses his lips, breathing heavily. “That’s no coincidence,” he answers. “They’re coming. They know we—they know you are here.”

“Who?”

“Dementors. Don’t you feel them? It’s gotten colder.”

She looks around nervously, fear bubbling in her stomach. Of course she’d felt them, not recognizing the signs, and the likelihood of dementors in Perth seems, even still, outrageous. But the blue sky has darkened to a stormy gray, and the clouds are rolling in—clouds that are more like fog. When Darcy meets Snape’s eyes, she notices something—vulnerability, maybe, a softness to him. Sweat shines on his forehead and he, too, seems tinged gray and green, as if he’s going to be sick.

“We need to find a place to Disapparate. Now.”

Without any further explanation, Snape releases her arm, only to grab her hand instead. His palm is sweaty, too, and he’s trembling slightly. His fear becomes Darcy’s fear, to see him so worked up in a panic. Snape drags her through the busy streets of Perth, down alleyways where young couples pay no attention to them and elderly women carry several bags, looking careworn. Darcy continually looks over her shoulder as the fog consumes them, the presence of dementors closing in on them quicker than she could ever believe.

“Professor, I’m scared,” she forces herself to say as they round another corner, the feeling of dread overtaking her. It baffles her that no one else is in a hurry, panicking at the sudden change in the weather and atmosphere. People watch them run with confused expressions, shivering in the sudden drop in temperature that she knows no amount of clothes will protect them from. “Please, Professor—”

“Just here,” he says. “Quickly,” he adds, as if he isn’t pulling her along just as fast as he.

She screams as they round a corner into a secluded alley, but they aren’t alone. A Dementor is there, staring them down, reaching for its hood and breathing that horrible, rattling breath. She freezes, a deer in headlights, the icy cold gripping her heart, voices of her parents, of Sirius, filling her head and drowning out the other sounds all around her.

Snape’s voice cuts through the haze filling her mind, “Hold onto me,” Snape commands quickly in a hoarse voice, his wand already in his hand, but not pointing at the dementor. His face is white, and he seems a walking corpse.

Darcy wastes no time in obeying, wrapping both arms around his middle and burying her face into his chest and shutting her eyes closed so hard it hurts. His left arm wraps tight around her, and for a moment, she assumes he’s going to cast a Patronus, but instead she’s sucked into nothingness within the length of a second, her body screaming in protest as she clings to the solid form of Snape’s body as tightly as she can, the breath knocked out of her and her chest feeling very much as if it’s going to cave in, his arm loosening around her, and he’s slipping away from her—

She lands on the ground hard, the blow partially cushioned by Snape’s body. It takes her a moment to open her eyes and lift her head, but at the sound of gasps and muttering, she knows she needs to. Moaning softly and slightly disoriented, Darcy rolls off him to look around, finding herself in Hogsmeade, not the High Street, but down some side street that’s far less busy. The cold has kept many inside, it seems, but a few stragglers have stopped at the sudden intrusion. She brushes herself off, grabbing Snape’s wand off the ground from where it’s rolled, and freezing at the sight of her hands, at her palms.

It’s something out of one of her worst nightmares, the sight of her hands stained with bright, fresh blood. Heart pounding, Darcy looks down at her front, where her clothes have been stained, as well—however, she’s completely in tact. There is no pain, and her clothes are not slashed or torn or severed, and it’s then that her breath hitches and she turns to face Snape, lying on the ground, bleeding out into the street. The sunlight here is almost unrecognizable compared to the dreary state in Perth the Dementors has caused, and it casts a sort of halo around him that makes the situation seem much, much worse.

_I’ve killed him_ , she thinks, horrified. _Oh, God . . . I’ve killed him._

Diagonally across his stomach, his sweater has been shredded as if by a claw mark, the wound in his skin so deep that part of her is surprised his organs aren’t falling out. Darcy crawls over to him, his breath coming in stuttering gasps, eyes still open and looking hazily at her, unsure of what else to do but place her hands over the gash, attempting to staunch the heavy flow of dark red blood. His own hands grope blindly for something to hold onto, her sweater slipping through his fingers like water.

For a brief second, Darcy thinks the Dementors have driven her crazy, trapping her within her worst nightmare, but this is _real_ . . . and it’s more terrifying than any dream she’s had like it. The sight of so much blood makes her stomach churn violently, the very idea of Snape bleeding out on the streets of Hogsmeade something more terrifying than she thought it would be.

“You’ve got to stand up,” she pleads softly, hooking her arms with his, attempting to pull him up. “Please, Professor, stand up . . . we have to get you inside.” Unfortunately, he’s dead weight, groaning and bleeding and only half-conscious. “Professor, _please_ . . .”

Darcy looks over at the small group of people watching on in horror, their hands covering their mouths. “Help me!” she cries, the warm flow of blood seeping between her fingers, staining her hands up to her wrists.

It doesn’t take long. She hadn’t thought to bring her wand along, feeling rather safe in Snape’s company, but she feels a fool now. The bystanders help her conjure a stretcher, and help Darcy bring him inside to the nearest inn, leaving a trail of blood behind them—The Hog’s Head, where Darcy demands of the bearded barkeep a key to any room because she knows they’re all empty. The barkeep looks disgruntled to have such a scene inside his bar, but allows them refuge all the same.

“Send the fastest owl from the Post Office to Madam Pomfrey. It’ll be quicker than walking to the castle,” Darcy orders one woman who seems fast enough. “Tell her it’s an emergency.” She watches as two men lower Snape into a bed, his face deathly white, blood still pouring from his stomach. She wonders how much longer until he’s lost too much. “Tell her to hurry, please.”

As the few people inside take their awkward leave of she and Snape, Darcy searches frantically for something to use as a makeshift bandage. She ends up pulling down the thick drapes, making sure to use his wand to dust them (a handy spell Mrs. Weasley has taught her during the summer days of cleaning Grimmauld Place, though not half as effective with another’s wand), sure that dust will only hurt Snape now. Kneeling beside him on the bed, Darcy presses the curtains to his stomach, meeting his eyes, his black eyes that seem very distant.

“You’re going to be okay,” Darcy says, and she’s certain Snape doesn’t even hear her. It doesn’t matter—the reassurance is more for herself as the tears begin to sting her eyes. “It’ll be all right, I promise.”

The fabric of his sweater is soaked and heavy, darker—if possible—where the blood has reached it. Her hands shake violently as what seems like minutes pass, every minute far too valuable. Darcy no longer tries to hide the tears that trail down her cheeks, or the furious beating of her heart as Snape lays dying beside her. The thought of it makes her heart ache painfully, a sort of ache she’s never felt before. She had always considered him a sort of constant in her life—always there, however unwanted at times, but always available, never leaving her like so many others.

After what feels an eternity, and just as Snape groans and his eyes flutter closed, the door to the bedroom bursts open and both Madam Pomfrey and an enraged looking Professor McGonagall, who both take a second to react to Snape’s current state with gasps of horror and shock.

“He was Splinched, I think,” Darcy rambles, hardly coherent through her sobbing. “There was a Dementor, and then we Disapparated and we landed here and he was just like this—”

As Madam Pomfrey approaches the bed and removes the curtains draped over his stomach to observe the wound, Professor McGonagall grabs Darcy’s wrist and pulls her away from the bed almost violently. “What is the _meaning_ of this?” she demands, nostrils flared, signaling trouble. “Explain yourself, Potter! Where have the two of you been?”

“It was my fault, Professor, I swear it,” Darcy continues to cry, afraid to look upon Snape’s wound again, able to hear Madam Pomfrey digging around amongst glass vials in a small carpet bag. “I made him promise to take me to Perth, I made him, I swear, please, and then Dementors came and we—and we—”

Finally, she forces herself to glance towards Snape again. Darcy watches down on the scene, feeling suddenly very distant from it all. Once, she had hated Snape so much that she would have delighted in his suffering, but now . . . she doesn’t hate him so much, if at all, and the sight is near unbearable. To see him unconscious on the bed with blood soaking through his sweater, pale and sweaty and looking barely alive at all . . . it’s all very vulnerable and exceedingly intimate. Darcy can’t remember ever feeling so powerful before him before, and it’s almost intoxicating—though significantly less so knowing that he’s gravely injured.

Madam Pomfrey cuts away his sweater with a fluid and instinctive swish of her wand, exposing his marred and bleeding torso, a sight that—even clean—Darcy has only ever considered in passing. Her eyes wash over him shamelessly, curiously. Snape is lean, with a smooth chest and a hard stomach, his skin like marble, porcelain. Darcy would even go so far to say that there’s something boyish about it, just like her own body, if it weren’t for the burn marks that tatter his skin, likely more hiding under all the blood. A few puckered pink scars are scattered here and there, as if licked with something thin. She blushes, forcing herself to look at something else—at anything else.

“If you were still my student, you would _never_ set foot within Hogwarts ever again,” Professor McGonagall tells Darcy severely, as the matron goes about her work, uncorking a vial of clear dittany, not bothering to use caution, but instead allowing it all to cover his wound, making it hiss and steam like a fire being put out with a bucket of water. The sight of his skin knitting together so unnaturally makes her sick again. “Putting yourself knowingly and willingly into danger is one thing, but to drag Severus with you . . . unacceptable . . . completely inappropriate . . . so help me, Potter . . . what could have possibly been so important?”

“I don’t know,” Darcy lies, looking at McGonagall through puffy eyes. “I don’t know, I swear.”

“For all Severus has done for you over the years, I thought you might be even slightly grateful,” McGonagall says, her voice becoming shriller the longer she talks. Darcy’s eyes continue to flick back from McGonagall and Snape. “You have continually shown a lack of respect towards Severus, and to put him in danger . . . to _deliberately_ put him in harm’s way by parading about with him in Perth . . . is this how you show gratitude, Darcy Potter?”

She knows she’s done it this time, but neither McGonagall nor Dumbledore could ever give her a punishment worse than this—to have to see the damage she’s done to someone she loves very much, to have almost killed them with her recklessness . . . her stupidity . . . it gives her feelings she hasn’t had since she’d watched Sirius fall through the . . . no, she won’t think about that. She mustn’t.

(your fault, your fault, your fault)

“I’m sorry,” she rasps, hiccuping as her sobbing slows. Her throat constricts, choking her, making her have to inhale deeply to breathe.

“I’m not the one you owe an apology,” McGonagall snaps. “The Headmaster will hear of this . . . _folly_ , make no mistake, Potter.”

Darcy doesn’t care. She only looks helplessly at Madam Pomfrey, likely looking dead awful and terrifying while covered in blood that isn’t hers. Madam Pomfrey catches her looking after gently applying a bandage to his freshly cleaned stomach. “He’ll be all right,” she says gently, but there’s a bite of irritation and impatience. “He’ll need a Blood-Replenishing Potion . . . maybe a few doses, but I don’t recommend bringing him all the way up to the castle—”

“I’ll stay with him,” Darcy blurts out, stealing another glance at the now sleeping Snape. His chest rises and falls evenly, his lips barely parted.

Madam Pomfrey and Professor McGonagall exchange the briefest of looks. “I . . . did not intend on leaving someone severely wounded without proper supervision. Stay if you will, but know that you will not be left alone with him.”

Darcy blushes harder. “I only meant—”

“We know what you meant. Poppy, I will send you the potions you need with an owl. Before I go . . . I’d like a last word with Potter.”

Professor McGonagall gestures to the door, and Darcy leads them just outside the room, in a narrow and dusty corridor that smells surprisingly fresh after the metallic smell of blood. Darcy finds she cannot stand the sight of McGonagall’s piercing stare for very long, her eyes dropping to her feet.

“I would know what brought the two of you to Perth today, and I would have the truth _now_.”

Darcy shifts uncomfortably. “I just wanted to get away from the castle.”

“Either an offensive lie, or an unacceptable truth,” McGonagall retorts curtly, as if Darcy is no more than a second year student who should know better by now. “Perhaps the Headmaster is not the most transparent at times, but perhaps a little transparency would do you some good, so listen closely.” She takes a step closer, looking down her long nose and through her square spectacles. Darcy looks up to meet her gaze. “I don’t know what is going on between Severus and yourself, only that it is likely highly inappropriate, given the current state of our world. Two years ago, the two of you could not be in the same room without accusations of needless cruelty and blatant disrespect running rampant, and you expect me to believe—now, presently—you somehow convinced Severus to accompany you on . . . on what . . . holiday?”

Darcy finds she has nothing to say. Professor McGonagall is right, possibly more right than she even knows, but Darcy will not confess to a different version of the truth. She doesn’t quite know why the truth brings her such shame, but she refuses to acknowledge the real reason she’d been so desperate to go.

Professor McGonagall lowers her voice slightly, taking another small step closer to Darcy. “Let us not both play the fool, Potter. Both you and I know exactly why it is so easy for you to convince him of anything, but I will not tolerate you using that knowledge to your advantage, especially when it is so dangerous for him to be seen with you, do you understand me?”

“Yes, Professor.”

“You put yourself at risk today, Potter, and you also put Severus’ life at risk. You should be setting an example for your students, not showing them the dire consequences of misbehaving and acting without thinking. I am disappointed in you.” Professor McGongall does not let up with her tone. It makes Darcy feel prepared to receive a month’s detentions. “I would recommend thinking long and hard about your decisions today, and decisions you plan to make in the future. I cannot stop you from endangering your own life, but be warned—I will not stand idly by while you risk your life with one of my colleagues at your side. _Fools_ —the both of you.”

Darcy stays quiet, her gaze straying to the closed door.

“Tell it true, Potter,” McGonagall says, noticing her wandering eyes. “Is there anything happening between the two of you that could compromise Severus’ position, should such a situation arise?”

“I . . .” Darcy hesitates. “I don’t know.”

“I’m unhappy with the answer, and I feel it’s a dishonest one. Pretending it doesn’t exist doesn’t make it so.”

Darcy lashes out then, seething with anger, still remembering what the Dementors had made her see. “You think I don’t know that?” she snaps. “You think that I, of all people, don’t know the truth behind that statement?”

“I’m only saying—”

“I know what you’re saying,” Darcy spits, seeing red. “You think I don’t know how he feels about me? You think, after all the time we’ve spent together, I haven’t pieced that much together?”

McGonagall purses her lips, but all Darcy sees is Aunt Petunia. It makes her angrier. “And you?”

“I don’t see how my feelings towards him are any of your business.”

“Perhaps not,” McGonagall agrees courteously, if not slightly sharply. “But it could make all the difference in the months to come.”

_He loves me, but does he love me enough to put my life and my safety above his position amongst the Death Eaters? Above his status? Above his pride and identity?_

“Tell Poppy I’ll be quick as I can.”

Darcy returns back into the room as soon as McGonagall leaves with a sweeping of her cloak, an annoyed look still playing on her face. Madam Pomfrey has pulled up a chair next to the bedside, and at the sight of Darcy, looks her up and down critically.

“You’re covered in blood,” the matron notes flatly, as if this is an everyday occurrence. “Best clean yourself up while we wait for Minerva to reach the castle.”

“I . . .” Darcy looks down at herself, clenching her fists to keep from seeing the blood on her hands. “I don’t have my wand.”

Madam Pomfrey narrows her eyes before looking expressly confounded. She holds her wand out, the tip pressed lightly against Darcy’s stomach. Within seconds, the blood is siphoned off her sweater, leaving it as clean as it had been when they’d set out in the morning. She then gestures to a basin of water, and Darcy makes her way to it, a cracked mirror showing her reflection above it. The water is murky and very questionable, but Darcy dips her hands in the tepid water and allows the dried blood to turn the water brown. When they come back dripping, but clean, Darcy quickly dampens her face, slapping her cheeks gently in an effort to restore color to them.

Her auburn hair is windswept and disheveled, falling longer than its ever been before. She certainly looks as if she’s just run into a dementor, but Darcy thinks she could also look very much like someone who has just murdered someone else, the evidence of her crime written, not only all over her face, but in the way her hands still shake uncontrollably, as well. Even her heartbeat must be loud enough for Madam Pomfrey to hear, and it reminds her of a story she’d read long ago as a little girl that had frightened her so for many weeks, but even her mind is far too scattered to really remember.

When there’s a tapping at the grimy window a short while later, Darcy is surprised to find her own owl just outside, a few small vials of potions tied to his leg. So overwhelmed and relieved to see Max after the eventful day, Darcy begins to cry again as she nuzzles against his feathery chest, his hard beak pressed into her forehead as if embracing her in return, all while Madam Pomfrey fusses with the potions that Darcy has yet to remove.

With Max perched upon her left shoulder shoulder, she sits down in the empty chair furthest from Snape’s head, while Madam Pomfrey occupies the other, uncorking a vial of potion with a pop! She’s able to easily part his lips enough to slowly pour it into his mouth, easing it down his throat. Afterwards, there’s a few moments of utter silence as the two women watch Snape remain motionless.

“Well,” Madam Pomfrey begins with a sigh, “there’s no telling how long it will be until he—”

Without warning, Snape gasps as if breathing air for the first time in years, as if coming back from the dead. His intake of breath is so loud that it startles everyone—Max hoots angrily, talons breaking Darcy’s skin as he leaps from her to beat his wings against Snape’s face; there’s a crash against the wooden floor as the empty vial slips from Madam Pomfrey’s hands in shock; and Darcy topples backwards off her chair, reeling in pain from her now bleeding shoulder and from the sharp smack the back of her head had received upon meeting the hard floor.

“Darcy!” comes Snape’s angry rasp as he attempts to pry Max off his face. “Idiotic bird! Get off! _Darcy_!”

“Max!” She whistles once and the owl is off him, returning to sit obediently upon her shoulder, feathers distinctly ruffled. Darcy gets slowly to her feet, her head ringing. She leaves the chair on the floor where it had fallen, instead sitting beside Snape on the bed, one foot tucked beneath her.

Groaning, Snape settles against the pillows with his eyes closed now that he’s free of Max’s attack. His hand touches the bandages on his stomach, fingertips feeling them gently before his eyes open sharply once more. Almost looking slightly afraid, Snape looks down at his exposed torso, his cheeks reddening when he meets Darcy’s eyes for a split second.

“Professor—”

Snape cuts her off. “Tell me what happened.”

It all pours out of Darcy without any hint of hesitation. “You Splinched yourself, after we Disapparated from Perth—the dementor, it—we were on some side street—you were bleeding and it—it was everywhere, all over me—some people helped me get you here—Madam Pomfrey and Professor McGonagall, they—I thought you—I told them to hurry—the wound was so big—I used a curtain—Blood-Replenishing Potion—”

Instead of demanding a straight answer from her, or commanding her to calm down, Snape cuts her off again with a simple question, gentle and concerned. “Are you hurt?”

Darcy pauses, finally shaking her head, her mouth very dry. “No.”

Madam Pomfrey clears her throat from behind Darcy. Both she and Snape go quiet, looking sideways at the matron. “If you’re feeling well enough, perhaps I should give the two of you a few minutes alone.”

“That won’t be necessary—”

“Madam Pomfrey, you can stay—”

But Madam Pomfrey ignores them, instead gathering up the shards of glass at her feet and leaving them with a sharp snap of the bedroom door. Max hops off her shoulder to perch upon the windowsill instead, taking in the chill air. With Madam Pomfrey’s absence, there seems to be a shift of the atmosphere, an awkward one at that, leaving Darcy feeling suddenly very timid and ashamed. She feels guilty again, and her eyes wander to the partially bloodied bandage wrapped around his thin waist.

“Does it hurt?” Darcy asks quietly, reaching out to touch the edge of the bandage before realizing what she’s doing, pulling her hand back with perhaps too much quickness. Snape doesn’t fail to notice.

“I’ve felt worse pain,” he confesses, his black eyes lingering on the hand in her lap.

Darcy’s eyes burn with tears. There is nothing she can say to make up for what she’s done, for what she’d dragged him into. “I’m so sorry,” she whispers, and though she feels the words are not enough, they come out shaky and breathy, sounding just as genuine as she means them to be. “We should never have gone to Perth.”

Snape grinds his teeth. She wonders if he’s attempting to swallow an angry retort building on his tongue, or if it’s something else. He maintains steady eye contact with her, but Darcy feels nothing pressing or probing into her mind, into her memories.

She wipes her spilling tears with the back of her hand, sniffling. “I was so afraid.”

Snape shifts against the pillows. “It was only one dementor.”

“I’m not talking about the dementor.” The lump in her throat makes it suddenly very hard to breathe or even speak. Her voice comes out hoarse and hushed. “I thought I killed you.”

“But you didn’t.”

It’s not good enough for Darcy. “Professor, I shouldn’t have insisted . . . it’s all my fault.” When he sighs heavily and closes his eyes again, Darcy frowns. “Why aren’t you mad at me?”

“Darcy, I am far too tired for this.” Snape opens his eyes again, and looks just as tired as he claims. “Do you _want_ me to be mad at you?”

“Well, I . . .” Darcy mouths soundlessly for a few seconds before Snape raises his eyebrows, urging her to continue. “I deserve it, don’t I?”

He looks at her for a long time, his gaze never wavering. And finally, he answers, “No. You don’t.”

His words leave Darcy speechless, but still crying. She sobs openly, probably looking absolutely horrifying to him, one of her hands covering part of her face. With her free hand, she takes Snape’s wrapping her fingers gently around his own and squeezing hard.

“I thought you were going to leave me,” she cries, unable to push the thought of a bleeding and gasping Snape from the front of her mind. “I thought you were going to leave me like dad did . . . and Sirius . . . it would have been all my fault . . .”

He lets her be for a minute or two, allowing her to clutch his hand so tight that she’s surely hurting him. And after shifting uncomfortably a few times, requests quietly, “Please stop crying.”

She tries, truly. But her breathing is uneven and she keeps hiccuping, and she knows when she lowers the hand covering her face that it reveals splotchy red cheeks and puffy eyes and tear-stained skin. Her heart shatters when Snape steals his hand away from hers, his eyes fixed on a point just to the left of her, as if ashamed to meet her tearful gaze.

“You should go back to the castle,” he murmurs. “Before it gets dark.”

“What?” Darcy breathes, the wind knocked out of her.

This time, Snape takes the more direct route. “You should leave.”

“Oh.” Disappointed and heartbroken, Darcy clears her throat and tries to regain whatever dignity may be left her. It’s an impossible feat, especially in this position. “Okay.”

For a moment, the briefest of seconds, Darcy thinks he’s going to say something. He looks conflicted, only able to look at her for a second or two at the most before averting her eyes again. Not for the first time, she wishes she knew Legilimency, wishing to hone in on what exactly he’s feeling, what he’s thinking. If only she knew how to read him, to read his face and expressions and body language—but everything is so confusing, as it always is with him, and he decides to say nothing. No thank you (not that she much cares whether or not he means it, seeing as he’s saved her life multiple times before), no good-bye, no heartfelt confession after she’d just cried over him to his face . . . nothing.

_Maybe Professor McGonagall is wrong,_ she thinks, wondering if it’s truly her own belief or if it’s some after effect of encountering a dementor. _Maybe nothing is all I am to him, and that’s why he has nothing to say to me._

She pushes herself to her feet and whistles feebly. “Max, come.”

With a ruffle of his pretty brown feathers, the owl returns to his rightful place on Darcy’s shoulder. Gathering all of her things, she leaves the room without turning back, a task that is difficult in its own right. But the sight of Snape dressed in bandages and pale and sweaty and bleeding doesn’t leave her when the door shuts behind her, and haunts her dreams that night, up until Lupin’s coin, pressed into her palm, burns hot and wakes her.

* * *

“Where were you yesterday? I knocked on your door for ten minutes.”

“I just wanted to be left alone,” Darcy sighs, peeking into Harry’s cauldron. Perfection, again. Impossible perfection. It only ignites her anger. “Didn’t you think that, if I didn’t answer after the first few knocks, I wouldn’t answer at all? Take a hint, Harry.”

“Thought maybe you were in the bath. Or sleeping. You know how you are. I swear you could sleep through an air raid.”

“Probably,” Darcy replies shortly. “I think I’d prefer it that way.”

She hadn’t been sleeping when Harry had knocked, nor had she been in the bath. Instead, she’d been seated on the sofa typing away on her typewriter, a draft for the _Prophet_ involving the sudden spike in smuggled love potions inside Hogwarts, listening to the annoying rapping on the other side of the locked door, silently willing Harry to just go away and leave her alone.

“How was Perth?” Hermione asks quickly, relieving the building tension. While her potion looks very good, as expected, it isn’t as good as Harry, which is quite unexpected. “Was it lovely?”

Darcy snorts. “It was fine. I bought a dress for Slughorn’s Christmas party.” Quickly, under her breath, she adds, “And there was a dementor, but—”

Neither Harry, Hermione, or Ron miss this small tidbit of information. Hermione gasps dramatically, drawing unwanted attention from the Slytherins at the other end of the room, and both Harry and Ron’s jaws drop.

“What do you mean there was a dementor?” Harry hisses, ignoring his potion, which has started to bubble. The slight mistake here is very gratifying, even though it makes Darcy feel guilty. “Like, there just happened to be a dementor in Perth, or it followed you?”

“It wasn’t there one minute, and the next, it was. They knew I was there,” she insists, though Ron seems skeptical. Darcy scowls at him over his secondhand cauldron. “Go on, then. Say what you must before you explode.”

Ron and Harry share a shifty look, but Hermione seems very much on Darcy’s side. “What is it wasn’t coincidence the dementor was there? You were with a Death Eater, you know.”

“So you think that Snape alerted the dementors that he and Darcy were going to be in Perth?” Hermione scoffs. “If Snape wanted to see Darcy injured or killed, he wouldn’t be so sloppy about it. He’s had plenty of chances to do it quietly, but has he ever?”

“There’s no other way dementors would have known Darcy was going to be there.”

“It’s sort of on the way to Hogwarts. Death Eaters might have stationed them nearby in case Darcy or some other unfortunate victim passed through,” Hermione counters. “How did Snape react?”

“We ran,” Darcy confesses, glancing over her shoulder to make sure no one is eavesdropping. Slughorn is at his desk, writing on some parchment with a droopy quill. The Slytherins are working quietly at their cauldrons. “We felt them first, and then we ran right into one. I was terrified . . . I didn’t even bring my wand—”

“You didn’t bring your _wand_?” Harry interrupts, furious. He says it so bluntly, so accusatory. “Are you mad?”

“I didn’t expect dementors in Perth,” Darcy admits sheepishly, her cheeks reddening. “I didn’t expect any trouble at all.”

“Dad _died_ because he didn’t have his wand—”

“Dad still would have died even if he did have his wand,” Darcy retorts coldly. The mention of her father— _their_ father—causes the anger to boil over, spilling out of her in cruel tones, her words hardly considered. “If someone wanted to kill me bad enough, my wand couldn’t stop them.”

“That’s not even giving it a go,” Harry argues. “You’d just let them kill you without even trying to defend yourself?”

“What does it matter?” Darcy hisses, not pleased with the way his voice has risen in volume. “No one died, and I came out unscathed. Anyway, you should have seen Snape. I’ve never seen him so frightened.”

“Snape was frightened of a dementor?” Hermione asks, giving her potion three lazy and distracted stirs. “I wonder what it makes him remember.”

“I don’t think he was frightened of the dementor,” Darcy tells them slowly, leaning closer and lowering her voice some more. “I think he was afraid that he’d been caught in a compromising situation . . . McGonagall said some odd things that made me think . . . and Snape was really strange after he woke up . . . but I thought maybe he was just . . . shaken.”

“What do you mean ‘after he woke up’?” Hermione asks sharply, her eyes narrowing. “What happened? Why were you with Snape when he woke up?”

Darcy can’t believe she’s left out the most exciting part. “Snape got Splinched on the way back to Hogsmeade. It was terrible . . . this deep gash across his stomach. I had to send an owl to Madam Pomfrey . . . he was bleeding out all over.”

“That’s why he was walking so weird at breakfast, I bet,” Ron muses, giving a casual shrug of his shoulders. “I’ve seen people who’ve been Splinched in the most gruesome ways. It’s not pleasant . . . for them, or for anyone.”

Darcy’s eyes go wide. “He was at _breakfast_ this morning? An inch deeper and his insides would have been spilling out! He should be resting.”

“Where were _you_ at breakfast, anyway?” Ron leans forward, raising an eyebrow.

“Overslept,” she answers coolly. “He shouldn’t be walking around already . . . he could really hurt himself . . .”

Harry seems glad of the sudden change in tone. With her anger now shifted to Snape, Darcy knows Harry uses that to his advantage. “What happened after you  got back to Hogsmeade? When he woke up?”

“It was like he couldn’t even look at me,” she confesses sadly. “I was all crying everywhere . . . I thought he died, and I thought . . .” I thought I had killed him. “He just told me to get out, in polite terms.”

None of them say anything as that information soaks in, only sharing glances here and there. Darcy taps her fingertips against the table, watching the movement of her fingers and feeling as if they aren’t even hers.

“I think he knew that he had messed up somehow, by associating with me in public,” Darcy finishes finally, giving voice to something she’d been mulling over all of Sunday, deprived of company or distractions. “Dumbledore told me he would be cold towards me, but he hasn’t been at all. If he is caught, and Voldemort were to break his mind . . .”

_His own recklessness will kill him before mine kills me._

The atmosphere surrounding them not only drops about fifteen degrees, but also becomes far heavier. The conversation has just taken a serious nose dive, and the very still quiet unnerves Darcy. But she doesn’t finish, instead saving the rest of the intended sentence for herself and for no one else.

It is a terrible thought—Voldemort, breaking Snape’s mind and seeing everything involving Darcy. All the times they’ve argued, all the times they’ve shared those strange, awkward, stolen moments—accidental brushes of their hands, his palm touching the nape of her neck, her fingers wrapped around his arm—and the unsure and complicated touches. All the times he’s saved her, the times they’ve been so close to saying things that likely would have been better said. It’s terrifying to think Voldemort could have access to some of the most intimate moments of her life, to her worst fears and her dreams and how far she would be willing to go for Harry. It would be a weapon against her, and Snape would be killed and thrown to the wolves.

_If Voldemort is able to break his mind_ , she thinks, picturing a very broken Professor Snape that she doesn’t even know—that doesn’t even know her, _I hope I am dead first._


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, am I sorry for disappearing. Life has been far more chaotic these past few weeks than I prefer, but life happens. 
> 
> I wish I had something greater to offer you chapter wise, but expect updates to come more steadily and consistently from here on out. I’ll try my hardest to make good on that promise. I’m super excited about several major and minor events still to come, and I’d be disappointed if I abandoned this story before getting to them.

“You’re quiet tonight.”

“I’ve a lot on my mind.” Darcy toys distractedly with her food, pushing it around while stealing glances at her manuscript set in the middle of the table. The typewriter’s ink is smeared in places, but nothing that constitutes it as illegible and incoherent. “I thought it would please you.”

“I’m sure you please many people when you decide to keep your mouth shut, but I ain’t one of them.” Barnabas Cuffe wipes his mouth with an already soiled napkin. He gives her a beady and critical stare, not at all making her uncomfortable—after all, Darcy is sure Cuffe isn’t a very practiced Legilimens, if one at all. “Have you written about any of these things?”

“No. Why would I?”

“Some prick at my first paper job used to make us do this exercise . . . write out our feelings to promote a sense of honesty and integrity within ourselves,” Cuffe explains, pointing at her with his fork.

“You always talk about honesty and journalistic integrity,” Darcy cuts in, lowering her fork and leaning back in her chair. “So why did you allow Rita Skeeter to write for you for so long? Why did you publish those stupid articles without a shred of verified fact or truth to them?” She shrugs casually. “I suppose some people might go so far as to say the _Daily Prophet_ is nothing more than Ministry of Magic propaganda.”

Cuffe looks half-annoyed, but smiles wickedly all the same at her. It’s a reassuring sight, one that tells her she’s going to get a real answer out of him. “‘Some people’ being you, I imagine?”

She considers him before repeating, “Some people.”

“You don’t really care, or else you wouldn’t be here, writing for me, your dear Minister of Propaganda.” Barnabas Cuffe holds out his hands and grins wider. “It’s true that the Ministry has ruled the _Prophet_ with an iron fist, but the current Minister is far more relaxed. He has more important things to do than scrutinize some newspaper, namely tracking down You-Know-Who and his associates.”

“Fudge was an appearance man,” Darcy finishes for him, scowling at the mere thought of the former Minister. “But you could have refused.”

“I didn’t have a choice,” Cuffe protests, offended, but not quite angry.

“Of course you did. Everyone has a choice.”

“What?” Cuffe laughs loudly. “Cooperate with the Ministry or see my life’s progress destroyed? I did what any sane person would do in my situation.”

“I would have never cooperated with the Ministry if it meant interfering with the _Prophet_. The people deserve to know the truth, and both you and Fudge deprived them of that.” Darcy isn’t sure why she’s so angry with Cuffe—she really, truly doesn’t think him a bad man. A complicated one, maybe, and a little slimy at times, but she figures that must be part of his being a businessman as well as a journalist and editor. Anyone who wears a suit is slimy.

“Well . . .” Cuffe exhales loudly through his nose. “You’re not any sane person.”

Darcy presses on, recklessly. “And what about Rita Skeeter? What she said about my brother and our friends was completely out of line, and you did nothing to stop it.”

Cuffe clears his throat and gives her a smirk that infuriates her. “The _Daily Prophet_ prides itself on the multiple view points offered to give readers a more comprehensive insight and understanding into topics taken on by its reporters. In no way do the opinions of our opinion writers reflect the views of the _Daily Prophet_ and should not be taken as such.”

“A very practiced speech,” Darcy notes, sipping her wine.

“One I’ve given on several occasions, and one that has typically worked.”

Darcy sighs heavily, pushing her food away from her. “I’m too tired to be angry with you right now.”

“Maybe something to drink will wake you up,” Cuffe chuckles, nodding towards her tankard. “What are you drinking water for?”

She rubs her temples, her head giving a painful throb. “Madam Pomfrey says I should drink more water, and limit my daily consumption of alcohol by some five hundred percent.”

“Rather an exaggerated number.”

“To you, maybe. It’s like Madam Pomfrey thinks I inject it straight to the heart.”

Cuffe’s smile fades slowly, until he’s just looking at her very sadly, almost sympathetic. “Look, I’ll read over the article and send you an owl first thing tomorrow morning with any changes you should make. I really wish you’d use a fucking quill.”

“I’ve gotten better with my typewriter. Just read it,” she protests weakly. “Professor McGonagall said it was good.”

“Right, well . . . tell her to not take it personally, but her word about your article means shit to me.” Cuffe father’s Darcy’s papers and finishes his own glass of water, smacking his lips appreciatively. “Oh, and about Horace’s damned Christmas party . . . you didn’t tell him to stop fucking writing me, did you?”

“No,” Darcy answers truthfully. “I avoid talking to him as much as I can.”

“Well, tell him I’ll fucking be there with my plus one,” he replies, a touch of a annoyance about him. “Thought I’d bring Duncan with me. Can’t think of anyone else who’d actually want to go to some fool’s party at Hogwarts.”

Darcy smiles tiredly. “That would be wonderful.”

She stands when he does, they shake hands firmly, and Cuffe leaves Darcy in a depressing silence, until she’s decided she won’t finish her food and leaves before the sun can set completely. The wind is cold tonight, but the walk from Hogsmeade to Hogwarts at least gives her time to think.

With November fast approaching, Darcy can’t help but to reflect on the school year racing by, the many odd circumstances that have already come and gone. In hindsight, the last two months seem to have gone be relatively quickly, and yet each day had seemed painfully long in their own rights. The constant waiting and fearing in regards to Lupin coming back, the very idea that danger now lurks so close to Hogwarts that someone could be cursed in Hogsmeade, the lack of order in Hogwarts that will presumably come eventually if Dumbledore continues to take his leave of the castle whenever he feels like and for however long he feels like it, meanwhile Darcy can’t go to Perth without nearly killing Snape. And Snape really seems to be either holding a grudge about that (rightly so, maybe), or his avoidance of her is complete coincidence.

Perhaps unrightly so, Darcy had kept his traveling cloak with her, the one that had been stuffed into her bag with everything else. She thought he might come back and get it, initiating some form of contact, but he’d never come. Surely Snape knows that she has his cloak, hidden in her bedroom like some girl with a crush, waiting for him to make the first move. But the longer it takes Snape to retrieve it, or even speak with her, the more Darcy doubts herself and the small voice telling her that Snape knows she’s sorry and knows that she’s remorseful.

Only once, since their trip to Perth, has Snape actually made eye contact with her longer than a few seconds. He’d come sweeping into Potions class to borrow some bullying third year that had apparently severely messed up some Transfiguration spell and turned one of his classmates into half a frog. An objectively funny situation, but it still makes Darcy feel guilty for finding it funny at all. Slughorn had allowed it without care, but Snape had lingered at the door just a bit longer than deemed necessary, eyes fixed on Darcy as if she were the only person in the room. She’d been bent over some Hufflepuff’s cauldron, explaining the uses of Mandrake Juice, when she’d stopped talking abruptly, wondering if he was going to say something to her _now_ , of all times and places.

But he hadn’t, and he’d swept away as quickly as he’d come.

Though, one good thing has happened since then. Madam Pomfrey had finally convinced her to open up a little bit, and their first ‘session’ (though the matron doesn’t like using such a clinical word) was planned for—

_Oh, shit. She’s going to kill me._

Darcy runs the rest of the way to the castle, deciding to make just a quick stop by her office to drop her things off; she’s already forty-five minutes late, anyway. However, as soon as Darcy opens the door to her office, Madam Pomfrey is already waiting inside, seated in Darcy’s chair, hands held together on the desktop. There’s a severe and pinched look to the older woman, one made up slightly of anger, but mostly exasperation.

Darcy freezes, sighing heavily. She takes three slow steps inside and closes the door behind her, adjusting the bag slung over her shoulder. “Sorry, Madam Pomfrey,” she says, words drawn out awkwardly. “I forgot.”

Madam Pomfrey doesn’t speak until Darcy is fiddling with the door to her private rooms. The accusation hangs heavy over Darcy’s head when the matron finally does speak. “Out exploring again, were you?”

Darcy inserts the key to the door and hesitates. She isn’t quite sure what Madam Pomfrey expects to hear. “Barnabas Cuffe was in the area. He wanted to have dinner in Hogsmeade.”

“Barnabas Cuffe? What was he in the area for, exactly?”

She turns the key and the lock clicks. “We have dinner sometimes. He helps me with my writing.”

“You’ve an unnaturally casual way of announcing your friendship with a man of great power and influence.”

Madam Pomfrey follows Darcy into her humble living space. Dropping her bag in a nearby corner, she makes way to the fireplace, starting a quick fire and holding her hands out to it, allowing the warmth to soak through her skin and to her bones. “I’m Darcy Potter,” she says suddenly, and she finds that her own name seems odd being spoken aloud with her own voice. “It’s rather expected of me that I make friends with some men who wield great power and influence, don’t you think?”

“To what end?”

Darcy pauses again, thinking hard. “I don’t know. Perhaps I’m just glad someone’s taken an interest in me, feigned or not. Don’t think I don’t know what you’re thinking. I learned my lesson when Ludo Bagman packed up and ran away without a word to me.”

“It would be expected from your aunt, wouldn’t it? Socializing with wealthy and powerful people?”

Scoffing, Darcy whirls around on her heels to find Madam Pomfrey sitting quite comfortably upon the sofa, her dark skirt pooled around her legs, hidden from view. “Are you psycho-analyzing me?”

“Is that not what you wanted to speak to me for?”

“It was you who convinced me to talk to you, and I don’t think I care to anymore.” Darcy turns back towards the fire, knowing that she’s being rude, and finding it difficult to look Madam Pomfrey in the face while being so. “I trust you know the way.”

Madam Pomfrey doesn’t budge. The sofa doesn’t rustle or creak beneath her, not once. “You wouldn’t have agreed to talk to me if there hadn’t been some small part of you that wanted to.”

“That’s a dirty trick, Madam Pomfrey. I’m tired, and I want to go to bed now.”

“I’m trying to help you—”

“What do you want me to say?” Darcy snaps, turning around again, her temper boiling over. “What do you want to hear from me? You want me to tell you everything I regret? Everything I feel guilty for? Everything that’s ever made me angry or sad or frightened?”

“You think these things make you some kind of anomaly, but they don’t—”

“Like you would know,” Darcy spits. Her chest is heaving. “Did Professor Snape put you up to this? To poke around in my mind because I won’t let him anymore?” She folds her arms over her chest, seething with rage. “Or was it Professor McGonagall? That’s probably more plausible. Worried about me killing myself, I’m sure. It would be terrible press for Hogwarts, wouldn’t it?”

“No one put me up to this,” Madam Pomfrey protests gently. “I just thought that it would help to get some things off my chest.”

When it’s clear Madam Pomfrey isn’t leaving, Darcy continues in an exasperated fashion. “Why do you even care?” she asks. “Why do the contents of my brain interest you so much?”

“Because you are a kind-hearted girl, and good. I still see it in you, when you finally allow someone to penetrate those diamond hard walls of yours.” Madam Pomfrey purses her lips for a moment, smoothing out her flowing skirt. “You are not the angry and vengeful girl you think you are, a heap of self-loathing and guilt.”

“That is _insultingly_ specific.”

“You have the world on your shoulders,” Madam Pomfrey continues. “I’m only here to relieve you of some of the weight. I’m not asking for it all, nor even half . . . but only what you think I might be able to carry, whether it be the smallest of loads, or the heaviest.”

Darcy’s face relaxes, her scowl becoming more of a troubled frown than anything. _She’s letting me set the rules_ , she tells herself. _As much as I want to say, as little as I want to say. Anything, or everything._

“What if I ask you one question—just the one?” the matron asks, almost daring to hope by the way she leans forward. “Nothing heavy, nothing painful, nothing noticeable. Something to . . . familiarize myself with the load you’re giving me before you arrange for me to have more.”

“You can stop,” Darcy retorts, reaching for a cigarette and a book of matches, half of them already gone. “I’m not a child. I know what you want from me, and you don’t have to coat it with flowery wording.” She lights her cigarette without a word or even the slightest sound from Madam Pomfrey. “Ask your question. Put the dagger in my heart already to end my suffering, would you?”

The corners of Madam Pomfrey’s lips quirk upward for a split second. Darcy can’t help but mimic her; a joke, even a well disguised one, could quite possibly be considered progress to some.

“Well?” Darcy asks again after nothing but a minute of silence. “What is your question? You want to know how much I was beaten as a child? You want to know how much I remember of the night my parents were killed? You want to know when exactly I fucked Remus so you can run and gossip behind my back?”

“A filthy accusation. I’m not interested in filling my time with my colleagues by gossiping about your private life. I owe you that much, don’t I?”

“That’s kind of you, but I suppose we’ll find out the truth of that in a few days, won’t we?” Darcy cocks an eyebrow, putting her cigarette to her lips, almost as a sign of protest. “Slughorn seems the type to never resist a choice piece of misinformation when it’s offered in whispers.”

“You haven’t been drinking.”

Her anger is back again, quick as that. Madam Pomfrey’s words are not quite an accusation, but one of curiosity mingling with genuine surprise. “Of course not,” Darcy frowns. “How could you tell? Did you notice me walk a straight line from my door to the fireplace?”

Madam Pomfrey gives a mild shrug, slinking back into the sofa cushions. “You’re eloquent.”

“Coherent, you mean?” Darcy scoffs. “I’m _tired_. Would you rather I just forget the meaning of the word courtesy and tell you to fuck off?”

The older woman on Darcy’s sofa flinches, but just barely.

“Well, seeing as you’re clearly not going to fuck off,” the cigarette is flicked into the burning fire, “then maybe you could just ask whatever question you wanted to ask, and end this as quickly as possible for the both of us. I’m sure my punctuality problem has ruined a very thrilling evening for you.”

“Now you’re just being smug.”

“I don’t think anyone has called me that, not even Professor Snape, and he’s called me every name in the book, I think.”

Madam Pomfrey hums. “You know, very little of us know much of Severus’ private life. He’s a very private man, as I’m sure you well know.” She clasps her hands together in her lap, pale things that look much like spiders. “And yet . . . it is hard for many of us to wonder . . .”

“Why he and I are so close? Is that your question? Because you only get one, and don’t you want to . . . test the waters, or whatever stupid metaphor you used?”

“Perhaps you’ll tell me another day when you aren’t feeling as bitter. If you sit down, I’ll ask you my real question.”

Darcy takes a seat in an armchair, crossing one leg over the other, resisting the urge to allow her leg to bounce restlessly, distractedly. Snape used to hate it. “Ask.”

“All right,” she says slowly, softly. “An easy question, and one that will help me know you better. Have you always wanted children?”

The word is as hurtful as a real dagger to her heart. She doesn’t know, Darcy tells herself, fighting the urge to tear the matron apart with her bare hands. “I suppose so,” she answers, feeling it’s a very good answer. It’s the truth, anyway.

Madam Pomfrey doesn’t seem satisfied. Darcy knows there’s going to be some kind of stupid follow up question, but before she refuses to answer it, she’ll at least hear the woman out. “Since Harry was little?”

Darcy clears her throat, getting to her feet and positioning herself in front of the fire again. She doesn’t want her face to betray any of her secrets. Instead, she nods slightly. The question isn’t relatively harmful. “I must have been five,” she says thoughtfully. “And I remember it was . . . late, or it must have been. It was dark and quiet. Or so it was when I dreamt it.”

“A dream or a memory?”

“Both, I think,” Darcy says, but she isn’t sure. Though after Sirius . . . there’s some part of her that remembers it, it must have been true . . . how could the feelings have translated from dream to reality so vividly? “I was so tired, but had Harry resting against me while I sat in bed, and I thought . . . I don’t really know how to describe it.”

“You were five and you wanted to be a mother?”

This makes Darcy smile weakly in spite of herself, her back still facing Madam Pomfrey. “Yes. It must have been that.” Her face darkens quickly, however. “Aunt Petunia would always talk about it when I got older . . . how I’d have a child just like Dudley with a man who would provide for us, but I always told myself that my children would never be like Dudley.”

Madam Pomfrey doesn’t answer. She doesn’t ask another follow up question, but Darcy feels more at ease that way.

Darcy makes her way back to the armchair, sinking into the cushions and allowing her long legs to extend in front of her. “You know it was Emily who told  
me where babies come from?”

“Your aunt never told you?”

“She never told me anything involving blood or sex, even the smallest amount.” Darcy smiles at the memory, remembering it fondly. They’d been cooped up in their dormitory after some seventh years had been caught partying after curfew for some kind of back to school get together, and McGonagall had kept guard in the common room that night to make sure there were no stragglers. “Emily told me in graphic detail, and everyone was horrified and disgusted and said they’d never have children, that they couldn’t imagine the pain.”

“Yourself included?”

“Maybe a little,” Darcy confesses. “But it didn’t change my mind. I thought it sounded . . . _magical_.”

Madam Pomfrey can’t repress a snort. “I suppose that’s one way of describing childbirth.”

“Have you delivered children before?”

“A few times at St Mungo’s, when I was studying to become a mediwitch.” She holds her hands out, a proud expression upon her lined face. “Although, we have potions to lessen the pain and make labor progress more quickly that work much better than the medicine that Muggles are used to.”

“And does anyone ever . . .” Darcy shifts uncomfortably, blushing. She feels it’s a great invasion upon her own privacy to discuss such things with the matron of her former school. “Choose to forego potions during childbirth?”

The answer is a relieving one. “Some do . . . mostly Muggleborn women or women who marry into Muggle families. It’s not impossible to have a child without potions or medicine. Women have been doing it for thousands of years.”

“It fascinates me,” Darcy admits, even smiling a little. “To bring a child into the world that is so perfect and pure and beautiful and blameless and _good_ . . . a child that has no regrets and doesn’t know hurt or heartache, only love . . . and to know that it’s a part of you, that you are part of that child . . .”

“I can see the appeal, in your case.”

_A bitter irony_ , Darcy thinks, _that life has robbed me of that dream._

“Is there anything else you wish to tell me?” Madam Pomfrey asks again. “It’s getting rather late.”

Darcy looks around the room briefly, her eyes settling on the black cloak that’s hanging on a crooked coat rack by the door. All thought of children is pushed from her mind at the sight of it, and she can’t quite look away. “Has Professor Snape asked about me?” she blurts out, feeling half a child.

“Oh,” Madam Pomfrey says, momentarily lost for words. “No, child, I’m afraid not.”

Darcy’s heart sinks. “Okay.”

“Severus and I . . . we’re merely colleagues, acquaintances. I don’t know that he would . . . well . . .”

“I know he’s prideful and . . . quiet,” Darcy replies. “I just thought I would ask. Is he okay?”

“Well, he should have taken more time to recover,” Madam Pomfrey says, sounding much more like her usual self. “It was a nasty wound, and I’m sure it still pains him.”

Darcy runs her hands through her hair, longer than usual, longer than she likes it. Emily knows how to cut it just right, with scissors and with a spell to make it perfect. “Madam Pomfrey,” she begins, trying to gauge a reaction to her uncertain tone. “Do you think Professor Snape is a good man?”

“I think he . . .” What begins as a confident thought trails off. “I think he is a deeply conflicted man, but . . . I think he wants to be good.”

“Can I ask you something else?”

Madam Pomfrey seems suspicious. “Anything, Potter.”

“Darcy,” she says. “My name is Darcy.”

The older woman quickly corrects herself. She has the grace to blush slightly. “Anything, Darcy.”

Darcy gets quickly to her feet, not comfortable sitting still any longer. She paces for a few feet, stopping at the sofa and falling into the seat beside Madam Pomfrey. The guilt assaults her quickly, making it hard to speak with the lump in her throat. “You believe me, don’t you?” she rasps, swallowing hard. “I never meant to hurt Professor Snape. Truly, I didn’t—”

“I know, Potter,” Madam Pomfrey answers. “I believe you.”

“It’s the same thing I did with Sirius, wasn’t it?”

Madam Pomfrey blinks. “How so?”

She breathes in deeply. “When I walked out of Grimmauld Place to go to the Ministry, I knew that Sirius would come after me.” Darcy takes a moment to compose herself. “And when I asked Professor Snape to take me to Perth, despite knowing that it could be dangerous, I knew he would go with me. That’s why I asked him in the first place.”

The matron smiles sadly. “Men are stupid when they love something,” she says. “Brave . . . and reckless, but stupid.”

“If Professor Snape had died, it would have been my fault. He hasn’t spoken to me in weeks. He must hate me.”

“No, sweet girl,” Madam Pomfrey coos, opening her arms to allow Darcy to fall into them. “He doesn’t hate you.” She places her hands on either side of Darcy’s face, lifting it from her bosom to look into Darcy’s eyes. “You are everything that Severus isn’t. You are good and kind and young and beautiful and easy to love. How could he ever hate you?”

Madam Pomfrey’s wrinkled and soft hands wipe the tears from Darcy’s face. For a moment, she has to wonder if this is what it would feel like to have a real mother, or a grandmother, to comfort her in her time of need.

Darcy looks sideways at the cloak again, still feeling quite guilty.

When Madam Pomfrey leaves her a little while later, Darcy locks the door and pours herself a glass of wine, looking at it for a long time before making her decision and drinking it quickly.

She takes Snape’s cloak off the coat rack and brings it with her as she sits on the sofa. It’s faded and stitched in places, so excellently done that it must have been by magic. Laying it down on the cushion next to her, she has only two thoughts:

_Despite there being no wearer, the cloak is comforting in its own right_ , and, _how desperate am I to find solace in a stupid cloak?_

* * *

“Are you listening to me?”

“What?”

Harry clenches his jaw. “You’re not listening to me.”

“I’m sorry, Harry.” Darcy blushes, pulling the shutters closed on the tall window above her bed, shutting herself off to the snowstorm outside. The scenery had been so beautiful, covered with a layer of pure white snow in the moonlight, and with Harry chattering about Quidditch, it had been too easy to get lost in her own thoughts. “Tell me again.”

“Dean Thomas is playing on the team for Katie Bell. Practice was terrible, and then Ron and I sort of . . . er . . . interrupted Ginny and Dean . . . snogging.” Harry quiets for a moment. “Ron’s really mad about it.”

Darcy settles against her pillows, grabbing the fake coin off her bedside table. It hasn’t burned for three days. She flips it around with her fingertips, distracted. “Ginny’s quite popular,” she muses, unsure why this is the one thing she fixates on. “Isn’t she?”

“I guess.” Harry shrugs, uncaring. “You were, too.”

“Only because I was friends with Emily and Gemma. And because I’m your sister.”

“Maybe.” There's a long silence between them. Darcy continues to focus on her coin and Harry flips through a book with the writing filling the narrow margins of every page. “Are you still beating yourself up about Snape?”

“No,” she snaps, giving herself away immediately. There’s a tapping on the windowpane and Darcy opens the shutters again to allow Max inside. He soars in on snowy wings to land upon the bedpost. “I need term to end already. I need to get away from here. It’s driving me mad. Are you going to the Burrow?”

“I think so.”

Darcy hums. “I’ve been thinking of staying here for Christmas.”

“But you’ve just said this place is driving you mad.” Harry frowns. It’s a look that doesn’t suit him. Smiles suit him, she thinks, smiles and laughter. How long has it been since she’s heard Harry laugh in earnest? “I don’t want you to be alone during Christmas.”

“I’m not going to be alone,” Darcy protests mildly. “I’ll see if Emily will come visit. And, you know . . . Snape will be here if I’m really desperate for company.”

Harry bristles. “You’d rather spend Christmas with Snape than with all of us?”

“No,” she says, her voice sharp and icy. “You just know how it gets at the Burrow. There’s never a moment’s peace and without Remus here, I . . . I just think I’d like to be alone for a little. Some quiet, you know?”

“But you love it at the Burrow!”

“Yeah,” she has to admit, “I do.” Darcy pulls her knees up to her chest, wrapping a long arm around them. “I just know this Christmas will be different.” And I’ll miss Sirius too much. “Anyway, who are you bringing to Slughorn’s party?”

“Dunno, haven’t thought about it.”

Darcy smiles weakly. “Barnabus Cuffe said he would bring Emily.”

“That’s great,” he says, although his tone suggests it’s anything but great.

“What is that supposed to mean? I’m sure Emily will be very happy to see you again.”

“I didn’t mean Emily,” Harry answers defensively. “I meant Cuffe.”

“What about him?”

“I think . . .” he starts, trying to find the words. “I don’t know that I like the company you keep.”

“What are you talking about?” Darcy snaps. Max seems to sense something coming, promptly moving as far away from Darcy as the four walls of her bedroom permit. “I thought you liked Emily and Gemma.”

“I told you, I meant people like Cuffe. And Snape, too.” Harry says Snape’s name with a certain amount of disgust. “And that whole thing with Ludo Bagman, I mean—what _was_ that?”

“I thought Ludo Bagman was my friend—”

“You should have known that Ludo Bagman wasn’t really your friend—”

“How was I supposed to know?” Darcy hisses. “Ludo Bagman never wronged me until the day he left without saying good-bye. He never asked me for anything, never took advantage of me. How would you have any idea what sort of friendship Ludo and I had?”

“You should have known exactly what he wanted the moment he approached you,” Harry retorts. This makes Darcy frown deeper, making her face ache, but at least she isn’t crying. “Same with Snape and Cuffe.”

“That’s not true.”

“You’re going to ruin everything with Lupin if you keep going on with Snape.”

“I don’t have anything going on with Snape.”

“You do, and everyone knows it. Everyone can see it.”

“Harry, you know better than anyone that even if there was something going on with Snape and me, nothing could ever come of it. You know what he was.”

“And that’s not stopped you yet.”

Darcy huffs with anger. “Then Remus shouldn’t have left!” she shouts. Max hoots indignantly, as if in agreement, and for some reason, it almost makes Darcy feel better. Her cheeks burn with embarrassment. “I waited around all last year for him to come back and use me as he pleased because I loved him, and yet when I needed him most, he decided to leave again for some stupid mission! Do you have any idea what that feels like? Having to sit and wait around and not even know if he’s coming back? But Snape has been here, has always been here, and will continue to be here to give me comfort.” And feeling much lighter, she adds, “There. I’ve said it.”

“Comfort,” Harry repeats bitterly. “Is that what you call it?”

She doesn’t want to argue about Snape, not with her brother. He will never give an inch in an argument regarding Snape and she knows it. Nothing she says to him will ever change his mind.

“I don’t know why I bother. I don’t know how you can’t see him as I do—as we all do. He’s not a good guy.”

“Maybe not,” Darcy confesses, looking out upon the snowy grounds again. “But I don’t care. I love him anyway.”

It seems Harry thinks the same of her, not bothering to argue back. Instead of speaking, he slips off her bed and leaves Darcy to ponder the beauty of Hogwarts and the almost free feeling that speaking the words aloud have given her.

* * *

“Would you stop snapping that fucking gum? It’s driving me insane.”

Emily scrunches her nose, spitting her gum out into the grass as she walks, in an almost spiteful way. “Have you stopped drinking or something?” she snaps. “You don’t have to be a bitch about it.”

“I’m not being a bitch, and don’t call me a bitch.”

“I wouldn’t call you a bitch unless you were _being_ a bitch.”

Truly, it’s the perfect day for a Quidditch game, especially one that’s so important (for Harry and Ron, anyway). The grass crunches under every one of Darcy’s steps, a satisfying sound, the sun shines mildly and the breeze is slight. Both Darcy and Emily have certainly dressed for the occasion, their own old Gryffindor scarves wrapped around their necks, a glittering red headband in Emily’s hair.

“Whatever,” Darcy mutters, pulling her cloak around her shoulders tighter as the breeze picks up. Emily gives her a sideways look and smiles, slipping an arm underneath Darcy’s cloak to link their arms together. “I’ve just . . . slowed down on drinking. A glass with dinner.”

Emily throws her head back and lets out a _ha_! “I knew it!” she exclaims. “I don’t know how a glass with dinner doesn’t get you drunk. You get skinnier every time I see you.”

Darcy bristles. She’s noticed, but she hadn’t realized it was so obvious. “Well, I . . . walk a lot here. You know, up and down stairs and . . . Hogsmeade and back . . . anyway, what are you doing for Christmas this year?”

“I don’t know,” Emily sighs exasperatedly. “Dad and I have been so busy lately, so we’ll probably just have a quick dinner, nothing fancy. Might be I’ll happen upon the Burrow for leftovers if I get the chance.”

“I don’t think I’m going to go this year. I told Harry, I might stay here,” Darcy says in a rather carefree tone, hoping Emily doesn’t find this as suspicious as Harry had. “I haven’t had word about Remus coming home and . . . with Sirius gone . . . it’s too crowded there.”

“But that’s the perfect reason to go to the Burrow,” Emily protests, not unkindly. “You need a distraction, just like over the summer. It wouldn’t do for you to sit in an empty castle over what should be a happy holiday and sulk and drink yourself to death.” She smiles bigger. “Or maybe you could come by mine. I told you, it’s . . . nothing fancy, but it would be a lot quieter at my place.”

“Are you sure?” Darcy asks, her heart beating quicker. “Your dad wouldn’t mind?”

“No, not at all.” Emily squeezes Darcy’s arm tighter, shrugging her shoulders. “Look, dad’s really sorry for how the two of you parted last. Mum and dad really liked you, Darcy. Dad knows mum wouldn’t blame you for anything. It’s just hard for him because . . . you know, he’s a Muggle.”

Darcy blushes, the topic one that makes her uneasy. “I don’t even know if I’d be allowed. Dumbledore’s placed all this protection on the Burrow—”

“Dad’s, too,” Emily interrupts quickly. “I asked Dumbledore if he could help us at the beginning of summer. Given the current climate, you know?”

“Oh,” is all Darcy can say. She changes the subject before any more can be said and shakes Emily off her arm. “Do you want to know what I did to Theodore Nott the other day?”

“What?”

“I dropped his vial on the floor when he turned in his sample. His potion spilled everywhere, and he’d already Vanished what was in his cauldron. It was absolutely fantastic. It was almost cathartic to give him a zero for the day.”

“You dropped his potion right after he’d given it to you? On purpose?”

“Yes,” Darcy says slowly, frustrated that Emily is only half-listening. It could be because of the crowd of students lingering just outside the Quidditch Pitch, meeting up with friends and working out last minute seating arrangements. But it feels better to blame it on Emily. “But Theodore deserved it. Are you really forgetting about the disgusting scar on my arm?”

“I haven’t forgotten, and it’s not even that bad—”

“That potion _literally_ burned through my skin—”

“Wasn’t it Snape in the first place who did that exact same thing with Harry’s potion last year?” Emily asks pointedly, clearly eager to move on from Darcy’s scar. Darcy only scowls at her, at her pretty blonde hair and her pretty smug face and at the smooth and unblemished skin on her arms that’s covered by her coat sleeves.

“That’s where I got the idea from,” Darcy answers. The two of them enter the Quidditch Pitch, making way for the teachers’ stand. Darcy had suggested against the idea of sitting with the students and Hermione, who’s been prickly since Dean Thomas’ first practice for reasons she can’t quite understand. “And it was different, like I said.”

Emily leads the way as the crowd grows denser, elbowing students out of the way so Darcy doesn’t have to. “You’ve been spending too much time with him.”

“I’ve been spending a healthy amount of time with him, thank you very much,” Darcy snaps. “Considering our . . . twisted sort of relationship.”

“Is that what you’re calling it now?” Emily asks, glancing over her shoulder at Darcy. Almost instinctively, they reach out for each other’s hands, as they so often did during matches while they were students. Quidditch had been far more exciting then, cheering on Oliver Wood and their classmates. Emily continues to pull her along, up a wooden staircase that creaks with each step. “A relationship?”

“Not that,” Darcy decides, groping in her cloak pocket with her free hand, suddenly reminded of the false coin in her pocket. It’s been so long since it’s burned hot. “Companionship?”

“That’s worse. It makes it sound like you’re fucking.” Emily stops abruptly, causing Darcy to walk into her back. “ _Are_ you fucking?”

“No!” Darcy hisses, blushing. “Besides, he hasn’t spoken to me for weeks. Since Perth.”

Emily doesn’t answer, only turns and continues climbing. “No one’s mad at you for it, you know,” she tells Darcy. “Of course McGonagall is furious, not that you needed telling . . . but most of the Order thinks Dumbledore is being a bit harsh.”

This lightens Darcy’s heart considerably, and there’s a sudden spring in her step as they near the top of the stand, voices growing louder. “They do?”

“Emmaline Vance made the point of reminding McGonagall that you’re twenty-one, and not fit to be kept inside the castle like a prisoner. She even had the audacity to ask McGonagall how she would feel in your position.” Emily laughs, but Darcy can only manage a weak smile. “Needless to say, McGonagall didn’t answer, but the meeting ended pretty quickly after that.”

“That was . . . nice of her.”

“It was cool of her,” Emily replies, raising her eyebrows and grinning toothily. “All right, so give me the rundown. And distract me from how winded I’m getting.”

“Okay, so Dean Thomas is playing in Katie Bell’s place and practice hasn’t been going so well and Ron’s mad because he and Harry caught Ginny and Dean snogging and then last practice Ron threatened to resign.”

“Is Dean any good?”

“Yeah, but not as good as Katie.”

Emily grits her teeth as they emerge atop the stand, sunlight blinding them. The benches are already mostly full, and no one pays them any mind. A commentator is still missing, the magical megaphone abandoned with no one to keep score. Darcy looks around for a student among the staff, but there’s no one to be seen. Emily laughs dryly, pointing to an empty place among the stands big enough for the both of them.

“Oh, look . . .” she whispers in Darcy’s ear. “He’s saved you a seat.”

Darcy follows Emily’s line of sight, stepping backwards when she sees. The only seats left are beside Snape, who watches the Quidditch Pitch with a sense of boredom. “I’m not sitting there,” Darcy murmurs indignantly.

“Oh, yes you are,” Emily counters, moving back to allow Darcy the lead.

“I’m _not_ —!”

“You _are_ —!”

The two of them fight awkwardly for a moment, shoving each other closer to Snape, drawing only more attention until Snape looks up to find them fighting right in front of him. Darcy drops her hands as Emily pushes her in the small of her back, nearly forcing her in the empty seat beside him. Laughing nervously, Darcy forces herself to smile at Snape as Emily sits on the other side of her.

“I hope you don’t mind,” she says sheepishly, trying her best to avoid his gaze. She instead focuses on the witch in front of her and slightly to the left, beside the empty commentator’s speech. “Professor McGonagall, who’s commentating?”

“I am,” comes a boy’s dull voice from behind Darcy. She turns around and groans at the sight of Zacharias Smith pushing through the dense crowd of staff to reach his reserved seat in front of Darcy. He lifts his head to look down upon her. “What are you doing here? Isn’t this supposed to be for teachers only?”

“Ew,” Emily says flatly, scrunching her nose at Zacharias. “Who gave you this job?”

“No one else wanted it, so I guess it fell to me,” he answers, too haughtily for Darcy’s liking. Emily rolls her eyes and turns away.

“More like you don’t have any friends to sit with,” Darcy retorts, and she hears some of the teachers around her groan again, as if they know something bad is going to happen. She blushes fiercely.

“Five Galleons says Weasley’s going to choke,” Smith answers smugly.

“Be quiet, the both of you,” McGonagall hisses, turning around in her seat with pursed and angry lips. “Smith, sit down and do your job, or it’ll be a detention.”

As Zacharias gets situated in his seat, sighing very loudly several times, Darcy shakes her head at the back of his blond one. Emily chortles beside her, and Darcy becomes suddenly very aware that she and Snape are sitting so close that their arms are touching. If he notices, however, he gives no notice of it, only continues to watch the field as both the Gryffindor and Slytherin team exit the locker rooms, dressed and with broomsticks in hand. The crowd erupts in cheers, more than half the stadium clad in red and gold, a hearty few Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs sporting Slytherin colors, as well.

“Malfoy isn’t playing,” Darcy notes to no one in particular. “Why isn’t Malfoy playing?”

“Who cares?” Emily frowns. “Isn’t that a good thing?”

“I guess.”

Although Darcy’s heart isn’t really in the match today, she can’t help but to feel a sense of pride as Harry, the new Captain of the team, strides across the field to Madam Hooch, his Firebolt still as beautiful as the day he’d gotten it. His hair is ruffled and tousled, much as she imagines their father’s would be.

Emily slips binoculars out of her pocket and puts them to her eyes for a better look. “He looks so handsome out there, doesn’t he?” she muses, making Darcy smile in earnest.

“Doesn’t he?” Darcy wishes she hadn’t forgotten her binoculars. Hermione always remembers to bring her binoculars for her. “I’m so proud of him.”

The players mount their brooms and the game begins to raucous cheering.

“And there they go . . .” Zacharias clearly isn’t going to be as entertaining an entertainer as Lee Jordan had been (who’d been the best by far), and this doesn’t seem to please Emily any, who’d begged Tonks to switch shifts in order to watch the match. “Many thought, that given Ronald Weasley’s patchy performance last year, that he might be off the team . . . though, of course, if you’ve got a close friendship with the Captain . . .”

“Are you kidding me?” Darcy shouts over the jeers of the Slytherin supporters. “Professor McGonagall, are you really going to let him—”

“Drop it, Potter.”

“Are you hearing this?” Darcy asks, turning to Emily with a look of complete outrage.

“Yeah. He’s dead awful, isn’t he?”

“I didn’t mean Zacharias—”

“Here comes Urquhart streaking down the pitch for Slytherin’s first attempt for a goal,” Zacharias continues, oblivious to Darcy’s rage.

Emily clenches her fist, pressing her binoculars hard against her face. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

But Ron saves the throw and both Darcy and Emily are too stunned at first to cheer along. As Ron throws the ball to Ginny, who soars away with it towards the Slytherin end, the both of them clap loudly, and Emily wolf-whistles.

“He got lucky,” Zacharias snaps over his shoulder as he reiterates his words in an equally offensive sentiment through the megaphone. “You know, I thought _you_ , of all people, Darcy, would know a good Keeper from a bad one. You did go out with Oliver Wood, didn’t you?”

“ _She_ might not be able to hit you, Smith, but I sure can,” Emily throws back at him. “Luck has nothing to do with it. Ron’s a good Keeper.”

Zacharias plows on regardless. “I’ve been saying for weeks that Cormac should have been the new Keeper, but I suppose your brother will have to learn the hard way.”

“Would you shut up already?” Emily says, lowering her binoculars to glare at him. “You keep going on like that, and you’re like to get hit by a straying Bludger.”

“Would you just calm down?”

Darcy’s eyes widen. He’s said the wrong thing, and Darcy slowly looks at Emily, who inhales deeply, as if to compose herself. “Okay . . .” she says to herself. “You know what?”

Without warning, Emily leaps from her seat and reaches for the back of Zacharias’ head, alerting several teachers and causing there to be a collective and audible gasp from all around them. Darcy is pushed to the side, into Snape, whose hands jump to her arms as if to both steady her and keep her from being pushed into his lap. It’s the first contact they’ve had in weeks, but Emily’s attempt at snatching Zacharias distracts her. Professor McGonagall reprimands her coldly as Emily’s fingers slide through Smith’s yellow hair, yanking his head back.

“Ouch!” Zacharias yelps, falling backwards out of his seat, red-faced.

“I told you to shut your mouth—!”

It’s Hagrid that puts a stop to it after McGonagall screeches longer than necessary, looking flustered, her pointed hat crooked atop her head. Professor Sprout protests (albeit weakly) in defense of her student, but it’s hardly heard over Emily’s and Zacharias’ heated insults. One of Hagrid’s meaty arms wraps around Emily’s waist, and he pulls her off Zacharias with ease. Some of her hair is falling out of her ponytail, and her lips are tight, but she seems okay. Zacharias rubs the back of his head, pouting.

“Professor Sprout! Did you—”

Sprout shakes her head as Snape releases his grip on Darcy. “You’re fine, boy, now watch the game. If you can’t commentate, I’ll see to it that Duncan replaces you.”

Zacharias shoots Emily a dirty look before deciding to ignore her completely.

To everyone’s surprise (though Darcy would never admit it to Harry or Ron), Ron continues to save goals at an equally surprising rate. It only takes two other saved goals to stop Zacharias’ rambling about Ron’s mediocre Keeper ability, but he finds several other things to complain about, namely Gryffindors’ two Beaters. In fact, Slytherin doesn’t score a single goal as the Gryffindor Chasers continually shoot the Quaffle past the lousy Slytherin Keeper.

Nearly a half hour into the match, Darcy chances a sideways glance at Snape. His lip is curled in disdain, likely frustrated with the match, his competitive side coming out in earnest. He does an excellent job and pretending Darcy isn’t there at all, but such simple contact has ignited a desire in her—a desire to rekindle whatever she’s been missing since their return from Perth and the near fatal incident that had caused Snape to stop speaking to her in the first place.

Very aware that now, with Gryffindor up sixty to zero, Snape may not be in the best mood, Darcy fears that she may miss her chance if she stays quiet now. Recklessly, she leans slightly closer to Snape to allow her to speak a little more quietly, offering them whatever privacy can be had in a crowded stand.

“How are you feeling?” she asks, eyes sweeping up and down him quickly in an attempt to notice anything off about him.

Snape returns her gaze before refocusing on the match. “I’m fine.”

Darcy frowns, leaning back in, willing to keep trying until she gets something out of him. “You shouldn’t have been up and walking around so soon after it happened. You could have hurt yourself even more.”

The words must have come out harsher than she’d thought, for Snape turns back to her with an incredulous look upon his face, an eyebrow cocked. “Excuse me? I didn’t realize you were properly qualified to relate medical advice.”

She softens, moving her knee with a jerk as it brushes against Snape’s. “I’m sorry,” she says, for what must be the millionth time. “I won’t bother you anymore.”

Gryffindor scores again, and the stadium is filled with a rendition of the classic song _Weasley Is Our King_. While Emily smiles to the music and watches intently through her binoculars, Darcy rather wishes she was still curled up in bed, sleeping until Max decides it’s time for her to wake to a rude pecking of her fingers.

She pretends not to notice Snape moving closer, his lips almost touching her ear. It makes a shiver run down her spine. “Did it please you? Seeing me so close to death?”

His question makes Darcy go cold all over. Part of her thinks it’s only an act, to keep up appearances, but if it is, he plays his part too well. She wets her chapped lips with the tip of her tongue. “No,” she answers, forcing herself to stare directly at the back of Zacharias’ head, not trusting her eyes to wander. “It did _not_ please me.”

_It pleased me to see you vulnerable_ , she thinks to herself. _It pleased me to see a side of you that you would never have shown me otherwise. But not like that . . . never like that . . ._

She jumps as his fingers wrap around her upper arm again. With their cloaks tangled together, it’s unlikely someone from behind will notice, and no one in front of them will, either, unless they were to turn around. His grip on her is tight, and it startles her. “Don’t lie to me,” he hisses through his teeth. “Don’t do that to me.”

Darcy turns her head, nearly nose to nose with him. For a moment, everything else around her disappears. The sounds of the cheering students fades, along with the players and the staff surrounding them. “I’m not lying to you,” she rasps, trying to jerk her arm out of his grip and failing. “You’re hurting me.”

He lets go of her immediately, lowering his hand to his lap.

“You think it was all an act?” she asks, insulted.

Another cheer goes up, drowning out those still singing along to _Weasley Is Our King._

“Didn’t you want me there with you?” she asks again.

The words tumble from him as they might a teenage boy. “Yes,” is all he says, breathily.

Something exciting is happening in the match, but Darcy has tuned out Zacharias’ commentary.

Snape is quiet for a long time, but he doesn’t look away from her, which leads Darcy to believe there’s more he wants to say. Not wanting him to swallow his words, Darcy raises her eyebrows, prompting him. “Darcy,” he begins slowly, seeming uncharacteristically nervous. “This upcoming Christmas party—which is, in my opinion, an absolute _farce_ —”

“Yes,” Darcy says quickly, cutting him off and feeling the heat rise to her cheeks. She knows him too well to know what he’s about to ask. “I’d like very much to go with you.”

Some color even finds Snape’s sallow and sunken cheeks. He nods slightly, and that’s answer enough. They smile at each other, small, hidden, and private smiles that give little to nothing away to their surrounding fellows.

So engrossed in their silent conversation, Darcy doesn’t even see Harry catch the Snitch, only looking towards the field again when Emily shakes her in excitement, and the sounds and sights of the Quidditch match return violently, and far more sooner than she’d have liked. 


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so a lot has happened since that last chapter. My brother’s family flew out to stay with us for a week (I finally met my nephew for the first time!) and I also lost my job, so, ya know. Cut me some slack 💕

“Darcy . . . Darcy, wake up.”

Darcy moans as Emily attempts to shake her awake, rolling over to turn her back on her friend. “Go to sleep,” she mumbles, slipping back into her dream again.

Emily shakes her again, her voice slightly urgent and panicked. “Darcy, there’s someone at the door.”

“Then go see who it is,” Darcy replies, pulling the blanket over her head and moving as close to the edge of the bed as possible. “I’m sleeping.”

“What if it’s someone coming to hurt you?” Emily whispers, as if the person supposedly knocking could hear through two bulky wooden doors.

Darcy pulls the blanket down and rolls back over, looking at Emily’s face, or what she can see of it with the scarce moonlight. “Are you serious?” she asks flatly, eyes still half-closed.

“It’s midnight,” Emily continues, glancing towards the bedroom door. “Who knocks on your door at midnight?”

“Probably some idiot drunken Gryffindor whose been celebrating a little too much,” Darcy replies, getting more comfortable on her pillow, ignoring Emily’s wide-eyes gaze. She shuts her eyes and sighs, preparing for sleep to take her again. “It’s fine. Go back to sleep. They’ll go away.”

“Okay.” Her voice is wary, but Darcy can feel Emily shifting beside her in bed, settling back down. “I suppose you’re right.”

_Knock-knock-knock-knock_.

Emily fingers clamp around her upper arm again, giving her an unnecessary shake. “Darcy,” she breathes. “Please, go check.”

Darcy sighs. “Fucking hell, Emily.”

She throws the blankets back and sits up, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. Emily pushes herself into a sitting position, holding her knees to her chest, her eyes following Darcy’s movements. Darcy slips her hand underneath her pillow to retrieve her wand, getting out of bed and yawning obnoxiously.

Darcy opens her bedroom door. Everything is so eerily still and, with no windows in her main living space, too dark. Only the dying embers in the fireplace give the room any light, orange shadows moving among the furniture. Darcy feels she’s still half in a dream, the slow and unsteady way she moves about the room to avoid running into anything, the elongated shadows on the ceiling.

_Knock-knock-knock-knock._

Darcy opens the door, wand held at the ready, but lowers it almost instantly. Hermione is the unannounced midnight guest, her bushy hair pulled back into a ponytail to reveal a tear-stained face, her eyes swollen.

“Hermione . . . what’s wrong?” Darcy asks, opening the door wider to allow her entrance. With a wave of her wand, candles fill the room with more warm lighting, a few oil lamps brightening it for good measure. “Why are you crying? You should still be celebrating that win today.”

Hermione takes a few nervous steps forward, watching Darcy as she closes the door. “I woke you,” she says softly. “I thought you’d be awake. I’m so sorry.”

“No, no, don’t be sorry,” Darcy replies, mustering a warm smile. She places a hand on Hermione’s shoulder and leads her to the sofa. “It’s all right. Do you want something to drink? Hot cocoa?”

“Okay.”

Darcy goes about her business warily, hearing Hermione begin to sniffle again as she turns her back. She hasn’t used the kettle in her room for a long time, preferring to drink wine or something harder rather than tea or hot cocoa. The water boils instantly with another tap of Darcy’s wand, screaming so loudly it’s sure to wake the entire castle. When Darcy sits back down with Hermione’s steaming mug of hot cocoa, the younger girl doesn’t even drink, only stares down into it blankly.

“Hermione . . .” Darcy begins, clearing her throat after a long time of awkward silence. “Are you going to tell me why you’re in my room crying and not, like . . . confiscating underage students’ alcohol?”

Hermione taps the mug with her fingertips. “Do you think I could sleep here tonight?” she asks, and upon seeing Darcy’s raised eyebrow, her eyes widen. “I just . . . couldn’t possibly go back to the common room.”

Darcy narrows her eyes as Hermione’s face shifts abruptly past her. Glancing over her shoulder, she spies Emily in the doorway to her bedroom, her face free from any makeup and baggy clothes hanging off her thin frame.

“I didn’t know . . . oh, Darcy, I’m so sorry—” Hermione begins to cry again, hiding behind her hands.

“What’s happened in the common room?” Emily asks, suddenly very serious and confident, not at all afraid like she’d been. “Is someone hurt?”

“It’s so—so _stupid_ ,” Hermione cries, but her words are muffled due to the hands over her mouth. She must realize this, for she slowly lowers her hands. “It’s Ron and that Lavender Brown . . . why can’t they realize some of us just want some privacy!”

Darcy blinks in surprise. “I’m sorry?”

“A thousand empty classrooms and closets in this castle and even a room that shapes itself to the user’s desires, and they still feel they have to—to—” Hermione scrunches her nose, mouth twisting in rage as she spits the next word out with icy venom. “Snog wherever they please, and in full view of the entire common room!”

“ _What_?” Emily yelps, as if Hermione’s words have done her some great offense. It seems she’s fighting the urge to smile or laugh for the sake of Hermione’s misery.

Even Darcy chokes a little, clearing her throat loudly to cover up her general surprise. She tries to picture Lavender Brown, a pink-cheeked girl with a round face and a thick mane of subtle curls, far more tamed than Hermione’s. A pretty girl, in truth, on the opposite end of the personality spectrum from Hermione. She isn’t even sure what Hermione expects her to say—is it comfort she seeks? Reassurance? Reassurance of what? Harry had mentioned a while ago of something budding between Hermione and Ron, but Darcy doesn’t feel she’s much qualified to comfort Hermione in times of this.

“Well . . . you know . . .” Darcy glances at Emily again, hoping for backup, but none comes. “Emotions were probably running . . . high today after the match, and . . . maybe some drinks had been had and . . . Hermione, he’ll come round once that all wears off, don’t you think?”

“Oh, Darcy,” Hermione sighs, smiling weakly, grasping her mug tighter. “You sound just like Harry.”

“Listen, Hermione.” Emily squeezes beside Darcy on the sofa, eyebrows raised to her hairline. Hermione does listen, with seemingly great interest. “If you want him to disentangle himself from Lavender Brown, just make him jealous. Find some bloke he doesn’t like and go around snogging him.”

“No,” Darcy cuts in seriously, shaking her head. Hermione’s eyes flick back to her. “No, I am not condoning that in the slightest.”

“It’s what Darcy did when she thought Lupin didn’t want her—”

“I’m right here, you know—”

“—she slept with Oliver and when Lupin saw them snogging after a Quidditch match—”

“—no, nope, no, not how it happened—”

“—and then with Oliver again after the gala—”

“—I didn’t sleep with him because I wanted to make Remus jealous—”

Hermione’s eyes flick back and forth from Darcy to Emily, one eyebrow cocked, frowning, confused beyond all measure. Emily scoffs and chuckles lightly. “You could have had Oliver Wood, future star Keeper of Puddlemere United,” she says.

“I _did_ have Oliver Wood, multiple times,” Darcy replies coolly.

“I’ll drink to that,” Emily answers, with a wicked smile that she shares with Hermione. “Teenage boys are horny and desperate to touch a girl over the clothes. It all must seem glamourous to Ron, but he’ll realize eventually it’s not all it’s chalked up to be and he’ll want something more than just someone to snog.”

Hermione almost looks scandalized, her cheeks blazing with embarrassment.

“Hermione, you don’t need him,” Emily continues bluntly, oblivious. “You’re a lovely girl without a boy at your side.”

“Why don’t we all just go to sleep?” Darcy suggests, getting to her feet. “I’ll get you some blankets and a pillow, Hermione, and I'll light a fire, if you want.”

“Thanks.”

By the time Darcy instinctively tucks Hermione in like a small child (to no protest on Hermione’s part) and says her final good-nights with a healthy fire blazing away in the hearth, Darcy feels exhausted again. As she gets up to return to bed, Hermione calls her back, slightly more at ease. She squeezes onto the sofa by Hermione’s legs, waiting for some question to come that is likely far too personal about her own love life. It seems much like Hermione to do such a thing.

“What would you do?” she asks timidly, propping herself up on an elbow. “Not Emily . . . you.”

Darcy smooths out the blanket covering Hermione in a very distracted manner. _Emily’s right_ , she thinks, _I’d fuck some bloke they hated to make them jealous_. But she can’t just tell Hermione that. The last thing Hermione needs is an in depth look into Darcy’s sexual escapades and her weak reasonings behind them, nor does she need to hear Darcy’s truthful blabbering about the only thing men are truly good at and for: _leaving_.

But there’s one man who hasn’t left her, not even when she’d hated him.

Darcy smiles down at Hermione. “I’d claw the girl’s eyes out, that’s for certain.” That gets a smile out of Hermione, at least.

“I’m sorry for . . . you know.” In the darkness, Darcy almost feels Hermione blushing again. “If I’d known Emily was here, I wouldn’t have . . . sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry.” Darcy pats her knee gently over the blanket. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

When Darcy climbs back into bed again, wide awake, she’s pleased that sleep hasn’t been so easy for Emily, either. “You baby her,” Emily notes flatly, an accusation more than a joke. “She can’t be innocent forever.”

“Come on, Emily,” Darcy sighs, pulling the blankets up to her chest. “She’s not like we were.” She rubs her temples, pressing her fingers deep into her pounding forehead. “Were we bad kids?”

“What kids didn’t show up to class hungover a few times?” Emily asks, but there’s something strange about her tone that Darcy mislikes. “We were no worse than other kids in our year.”

“There was that girl in fourth year. Do you remember?”

“I wouldn’t consider making fun of someone’s acne morally compromising, if that’s what you’re asking.” Emily shifts in bed to face her. “Besides, she was a wanker. She always pulled my hair in Charms class when we were in second year.”

“Mine too,” Darcy recalls. “She cried, though. Remember? I never cried because she pulled my hair.”

“Darcy, no one’s perfect,” Emily says, a funny thing to hear from the lips of someone Darcy had always considered to be perfect during their years at Hogwarts. “So we smoked a little, and we drank a lot, and you fucked Oliver . . . lots of people smoked and drank and fucked at Hogwarts. And some didn’t. But that doesn’t mean we were bad people.”

“We shouldn’t have drank so much.”

Emily chuckles. “You’re probably right.”

A comfortable silence follows. Darcy frowns, bringing her hands to the top of her head and thinking. Hermione is her current priority, but Darcy knows it’s part of life, and there’s no permanent cure for heartache. Darcy’s no stranger to the feeling, constantly in a state of some kind of ache. How simple Hermione’s situation seems, how childish, when Lupin is out somewhere in the country surrounded by werewolves, unsure if he’ll live through next week. The stress that entire situation puts on Darcy is so much to bear, and she finds herself wishing things were simpler again.

“Listen, Emily,” she says, wondering if Emily will even indulge her an answer. “If he’s not home by Christmas, I . . . if he misses Christmas . . .”

Emily’s eyes snap open and she sits up with unnatural speed. “What do you mean? Are you . . . ?” Her hands shoot to her mouth as she gasps. “Are you going to end things with Lupin?”

(if you’ve no interest in being with me, then go)

Darcy sighs shakily. “He made this big point about committing.” She remembers well. It had been the morning after she’d slept at Grimmauld Place over the summer.

(i don’t want you here if this is how it’s going to be)

“I left him for a night and he was furious with me,” she explains, regretting her confession very much. Gemma has always been the one to listen to Darcy’s talking about Lupin, and Gemma is the one Darcy wishes were here to at least make it less awkward. “He leaves me here for nights on end, with no clue as to when—or if—he’ll return. The coin hardly burns, no one knows anything, or no one will tell me if they do.”

“I’m sure he’ll be home for Christmas,” Emily says, in a voice that doesn’t seem so surprised anymore, but more suspicious. “He knows how much it means to you. You know that he would be here if he could.”

“I didn’t see anyone forcing his hand,” Darcy hisses, not wanting Hermione to head them arguing. “He could have stayed here with me, but he chose not to.”

“What does it matter?” Emily asks. “Even if you do end things, it’s not like you have someone else on hold. Is there?”

Darcy blushes furiously, not failing to catch her meaning, but choosing to feign ignorance. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Don’t act stupid,” Emily retorts, raising her eyebrows as high as they can go. “You know exactly what I mean. You’ve got it _bad_ for Snape.”

“I—” Darcy splutters for a moment, infuriated by the smug smile that crosses Emily’s face. “Even if I _did_ have anything for Snape, it’s not like that. I have to make a point. I have to keep whatever dignity I’ve left to me, haven’t I? If I want commitment, a life, I need to show him that I’m serious about it or he’ll keep walking all over me.”

“Darcy,” Emily says gently, too knowingly. “You’re severely mistaken if you think anything could happen between you and Snape.”

_But it has happened already_ , Darcy thinks to herself. _While neither of us were looking, it happened, and we allowed it to._

Darcy knows that Emily is right, but even so, the words hurt her far more than she likes. But she cannot deny that . . . maybe Emily is throwing a truth at her that Darcy has been too cowardly to face for a long time now, a truth that both shames her and saddens her.

It is true that, of late, during nights where the fake coin’s not burned all day, Darcy’s taken to thinking of Snape, something that makes her blush even alone. She tries to think of how it started . . . a touch or a look or something said . . . but she can never pinpoint a moment down in her mind. She knows his touch, but wonders what it feel like to sleep beside him, wonders what it would feel like to run her fingertips across his smooth chest, his lean stomach. He’s kissed her before, but she wonders what it would feel like to be kissed by him more than willingly, not reluctantly like their previous encounters had been. She wonders what it would be like to see him smile sleepily at her through the darkness, vulnerable and warm.

He’s nothing like the man she thought she’d come to love when she was young. Lupin still fits that bill—someone kind and funny and strong. Someone that laughs easily and leaves her feeling weak in the knees. Darcy doesn’t think Snape a particularly warm man, nor does she see him as a romantic like Lupin, reading to her by a fire, tangled up on some sofa together. And Darcy can’t imagine tender touches from Snape in bed, unsure if there would even be a gentle side to him that she’s not yet seen.

“It’s not like that,” Darcy answers softly after a long time. “It’s not.”

There is no family with Snape, she knows that. No future. And she really, truly does love Lupin. And maybe that’s what’s stopped her in the past. They’re completely different people, and yet . . . there is a sense of comfort she finds in him, a sense of stability . . .

“We spent seven years _happily_ abusing Snape, if you recall,” Emily says, mustering a weak—albeit fond—laugh. But as soon as her laughter dies, she grows too serious. “Don’t throw your life away for him, Darcy.”

_What life_? “I think I’ll be going to sleep now,” Darcy says abruptly, wishing for the first time in a long time that her bed was empty. 

* * *

“Light on your feet.”

“I am.”

“Turn your body sideways. You’re graceful enough on your feet that no spell with hit you.”

“I feel stupid standing like this.” Darcy extends her wand arm towards Snape, waving it around obnoxiously. “I feel like we’re about to sword fight. I just read a book with sword fighting in it.”

A smile threatens Snape’s lips. “Darcy,” he says exasperatedly. “ _Focus_.”

She smiles sheepishly, lowering her wand and blushing. “Sorry.”

There’s a beat in which Darcy thinks Snape is going to give her one of his insufferable lectures about her inability to pay attention or her inability to be properly taught. “What book was it, incidentally?” he finally asks, in a much kinder tone than she’d expected.

She brightens at once. “ _The Three Musketeers_.”

Snape cocks an eyebrow. “Oh? Who was your favorite?”

“Milady,” Darcy answers quickly. “Beautiful and ruthless.”

“Indeed.” His look of curiosity turns suddenly into one of wariness, but it’s shaken off as he proceeds with their lesson. Darcy doesn’t miss it, though. Snape lifts his wand again, one foot in front of the other, preparing to strike. “What difference is there between sword fighting and dueling, really?” he asks, the question hanging there in the air between them. “Less bloodshed, maybe. But an objective to defeat your opponent, to maim, to sometimes kill. Avoiding their next blow, which could mean certain death.”

Her own curiosity piqued, Darcy mimics his stance, wand at the ready.

In a long abandoned classroom on the fourth floor, adorned with thick cobwebs and overturned chairs, Darcy had found the perfect place for a dueling lesson. A few small, stained glass windows allow them some natural light along with a loud rattling sound whenever the wind blows. No one’s like the find them there, tucked in a relatively disused wing of the castle opposite the library.

“Are you ready?” he asks, and she nods half-heartedly in response. “Watch my wand and just block the spells I’m going to send at you.”

Snape nods once before he begins. Darcy expects him to take it easy, just the once, just the first time, but he begins as if the duel is life or death. They come quicker than she could ever imagine, his wrist moving so sharply that it momentarily distracts her. Darcy’s arm moves almost belligerently, trying to keep up with Snape. But after a few blocked spells, Snape fires one before she can even think to cast a Shield Charm again. The jet of blue light hits Darcy in the stomach, causing her to panic for a moment, afraid of what it might do to her, but it only knocks her down, and she falls painfully on her tailbone, causing her to drop her wand.

“You’re going too fast,” she complains, pushing herself to her feet and brushing herself off.

“For as graceful as you are on your feet, I expected more grace with your wand work, as well,” Snape notes, sounding genuinely surprised. “Are you ready to try again?”

But after being knocked backwards three more times, Darcy is close to tears and blushing furiously. If Snape notices her tears, however, he gives no indication. After the fourth time, she hesitates, remaining on the floor and feeling very small in comparison to him.

He can’t pretend not to notice her tears then. “Why . . . ?” Snape clears his throat, looking torn between standing very still like he is, or walking towards her to help. “Why are you crying?”

“I’m not good at this,” she says bluntly, gripping her wand tight and cursing it. “I’m not good at anything expect Potions.”

“You’re better at Potions because you had a consistent teacher and are rather good at following directions . . . when you see fit to.” He gives her another exasperated look and walks over to her, extending a hand to help her up. Darcy takes it, allowing his help without much protest. “You’re thinking too much about it, like you have to take time to conjure up some magic to cast a Shield Charm. The magic is already a part of you, and you need to trust yourself to know what to do without needing to think about it.”

Darcy remembers the events of the Ministry suddenly, far more forcefully and vividly than she’d prefer. She remembers dueling some Death Eaters at Emily’s side, and how instinctual everything had been, how her wand seemed to be doing the work for her. She hasn’t given it much thought, considering the other events that overshadowed her brief duel that night. For the amount of pain and discomfort Darcy had been in, she hadn’t been bad against the Death Eaters . . . she’d had Emily’s help, of course, but she’d held her own and was able to keep up where others in her year likely wouldn’t have been able to, thanks to the inconsistency of Defense Against the Dark Arts teachers.

The two of them part, Snape backing up several steps to resume his original position, wand already pointed at her. Without warning, he sends a spell at her. She tries to throw up a shield too late, and ends back up on the ground.

“That wasn’t fair,” she says again.

“Life isn’t fair, and you should know that by now,” he replies, knocking her down again as soon as she stands. “You need to be prepared, always. Stand. We’ll try again.”

Darcy manages to block a few more of his spells, and when she thinks he’s not ready for it, attempts to knock him down, too. But Snape, quick as a wink, blocks it and the spell rebounds on her instead. Darcy lands on the hard plank floor with a loud _thump_!

Snape lowers his wand, allowing her to get back up without causing her to worry about another immediate attack.

“Your magic is tied to your emotions,” he explains, watching Darcy brush herself off. “Grief, despair, loneliness, anxiety . . . these emotions will do nothing for your own skill, especially when felt so strongly.”

“I can’t help how I feel,” she protests sharply.

He waves his wand, flicking his wrist and sending blue sparks at her. Darcy blocks it, feeling ready to walk out.

“Stop _doing_ that!” she shouts. “I’m not ready!”

“Do you remember that night in the Shrieking Shack? Not the night that wolf nearly killed you, no . . .” He hurls another spell at her, but Darcy’s quicker this time. Without hesitation, he tries again, but the spell is knocked aside once more, blue light dissolving in the air upon hitting her Shield Charm. “The night I would have given both Black and Lupin to the dementors, if you and your insufferable brother hadn’t been there.”

His words give her pause, and his next spell hits her full in the chest, knocking the wind out of her. Darcy only looks at him with wide eyes, frowning. “What is _wrong_ with you?” she demands, rage bubbling under the surface of her skin, in her very blood.

“You’re angry,” he notes, stupidly.

“Of course I’m angry!” she retorts, her cheeks burning. “You’re tactless and spiteful! What are you playing at?”

Darcy doesn’t allow Snape’s next spell to touch her. She only sidesteps it, blocking the second spell to follow it. Snape is relentless, never letting up, wordlessly sending spell after spell towards her with subtle movements of his wand.

“Despite everything,” Snape continues, carrying on his simple assault on her, “he left you anyway.”

She gets stuck on his words again, ducking almost too late. She would never have gotten a Shield Charm up in time. The sparks fizzle out a few yards past her.

“Trapped in a castle with nowhere to go,” he says, sneering, mocking her. She hates him in that moment. “Unable to leave as you please, unable to go anywhere alone.”

Darcy inhales deeply, spinning around to avoid another spell. The sheer quickness of his spellcasting keeps her on her toes, coming too fast to block them all, his words slowing her brain down. She must look ridiculous, dancing back and forth and up and down and left and right avoiding spells. Her blinding rage leaves her feeling drunk, clumsy and fumbling, breathing heavily as if she’s just sprinted the length of the entire castle.

“Shut up,” she says, gritting her teeth and throwing up a Shield Charm just in time, the force of Snape’s spells making her stumble. “You’re making me really angry now.”

“Am I? What will you do, then?” Snape asks, in that haughty voice of his. “Torture me?”

The fingers on her right hand tingle suddenly and fiercely, electricity shooting up her arm, spreading across her skin like invisible veins. Thinking of Bellatrix and the events that followed Sirius’ death makes her sick to her stomach, and she isn’t in charge of her wand anymore, but her hand is moving anyway of its own accord. For a terrible, horrifying moment, Darcy fears the worst, that Snape will be hit unsuspecting by an Unforgivable Curse, writhing the way Bellatrix had on the reflecting floor of the Atrium. But when she casts this spell, the feeling is  
nothing like she remembers.

Snape cries out and falls over backwards, slamming hard onto the ground. Darcy drops her wand without thinking, running over to his side.

“I’m so sorry,” she breathes, ignoring the flippant hand waving her concerns away. “Why did you have to make me so angry?”

“To prove a point,” he groans, pushing himself into a sitting position. As soon as he does, he wand is up again. Defenseless, Darcy can only hold her hands up to block her face, this time expecting the spell that causes her to skid backwards across the floor, though the dull ache is no less than before. “Don’t ever drop your wand. I could have killed you, if I wanted to.” Both of them stand at the same time, Darcy with her wand in hand this time. “When you aren’t drowning in self-pity and grief, you’re angry. And when you’re angry, your magic is stronger.”

“That’s what you do, then?” she hisses, still wounded from his less than friendly reminders of everything that still pains her. “Ignore all your actual human feelings and just settle for anger and bitterness all the time?”

Snape rubs his wrist, which had caught the brunt of his fall. His face darkens. “All right, that’s enough,” he warns her in a low voice.

Darcy bristles. “Why?”

“I said, _enough_.”

For once, Darcy decides not to push it. It’s very likely he’ll want nothing to do with her if she makes him angry, and then he won’t want her to come to the Christmas party with him. She looks down at her shoes, kicking at the floor distractedly.

“Perhaps I went a bit too far,” he says again.

“A bit?” she answers fiercely.

“I apologize.”

Darcy glances quickly at him before finding a point on her shirt to pick at. “It’s fine. At least you aren’t calling me girl anymore.” She smiles half-heartedly, in a teasing sort of way. “You were mean to me.”

Snape clears his throat, straightening up. “And you were bold and mouthy.”

She scrunches her nose, her smile growing. “You were _mean_.”

Darcy is ready for it—the lazy spell that Snape sends at her in an attempt to shut her up. She throws up a Shield Charm and dances away from the next one, her dark red hair flying around and blinding her for a moment. While disoriented, Darcy expects him to throw her another spell, but it never comes and, unbidden and unwarranted, breathless laughter spills from her mouth. When she pushes her hair out of her face, Darcy’s eyes happen first upon Snape, seeing nothing else in the world at that moment.

He’s smiling, baring his teeth slightly in a very unsure and nervous way. For the first time in years, Darcy glimpses some semblance of the young man Snape used to be, the unsmiling and hard man she’d met during her first year at Hogwarts. He hadn’t been overtly handsome then, either, but less sullen and leaner and there was always color to his cheeks. But he’s never looked at her this way, like she’s the only thing in the world that matters in this moment.

_When was the last time Remus looked at me like that?_

She can’t even remember. Everything seems so foggy and her mind disoriented. His smile makes her weak, a funny feeling in her stomach that she’s not felt for weeks.

“Can I ask you something?” he finally asks.

Darcy nods slowly, still grinning.

“Why did you start writing for the _Prophet_? After all they did to you?”

She thinks for a moment. His question is posed so innocently that it doesn’t even make her angry or hurt or insulted. “I don’t know,” she answers with a casual shrug. “I guess I just wanted to do it. And I thought maybe people would finally listen to me if I did.”

“Do you like it?”

“Not really,” Darcy says, almost too quickly. It makes her feel guilty, as if Barnabas Cuffe can hear her wherever he is. “Well, I don’t know. Maybe sometimes. I like Cuffe, and I don’t want to let him down, I suppose. You’re right to spare yourself from reading the paper. It’s all rubbish anyway, isn’t it?”

Snape wipes his wand off with his sleeve, making even such a mundane task look elegant. He looks genuinely surprised by her remark. “I read everything you write.”

Darcy pauses, blushing. “Really?”

He raises his eyebrows, amusement playing on his face. “I thought your advice article on the desires of teenage girls was _thrilling_ . . . even inspired.”

She blushes harder. “Shut up!” she shouts, but it’s with a smile, and all in good nature. “I didn’t get to choose the topic, you know.”

“You like that man? Cuffe?” Snape asks incredulously. “Truly?”

“He’s good to me,” Darcy says, shrugging again. She rolls her wand between her fingers. “He helps me when I need help writing. He wants me to be better at writing, but I’m not . . . sometimes I just don’t feel like doing it.”

Snape nods slowly, looking around the room and fixing his eyes upon a desk that still looks sturdy enough to sit upon. He makes for it, closing the distance between them, but not close enough that it makes Darcy uncomfortable. She leans against another desk positioned behind her.

“I don’t like teaching as much with Slughorn,” she confesses brazenly, with confidence that’s unnatural for her. “I liked it better with you.”

“I . . .” He clears his throat again, pushing his dark hair out of his face. “I just want you to know, I _did_ appeal to the headmaster about keeping you with me.”

“That was kind of you,” Darcy answers. “A shame that Dumbledore didn’t care much for the idea. But I suppose that would give away the game, wouldn’t it? Keeping me with you?”

“It might have given us a better excuse to be seen together.”

“I didn’t realize an excuse was being made already.” Darcy cocks an eyebrow, crossing her arms over her chest. “What’s the excuse? Is there really one?”

“No more,” he tells her quickly. His voice is hard again, but his face shows no sign of anger. “Watch what you’re asking.”

Darcy nods, accepting of the answer. It would be unwise to share such secrets with a young girl with big ties to Harry Potter. After a moment’s silence. “You wouldn’t ever hurt me, would you?”

He looks at her for a long time, as if she’s playing some kind of trick. Darcy feels very stupid suddenly for asking such a childish question and looks away from him, but the sensation of his fingers curling around her elbow make her eyes snap back to him. His grip is gentle, only meant to get her attention.

“Darcy,” he says slowly. “I would never hurt you.” Snape releases her, acting as if nothing has happened, as if he hasn’t just told her the kindest thing he’s possibly ever said. His wand finds its way back to his hand, and he’s stepping away from her, pulling his sleeves up to the middle of his forearm. The bottom part of his Dark Mark shows, but if Snape notices, he does nothing to hide it completely. “Stand tall and at the ready. I’ll slow down this time.”

Darcy smiles, turning sideways with her wand out, pointed towards him. “I’m ready.”

“Remember: light on your feet . . .”

* * *

“You _have_ to come to the Burrow for Christmas! Bill said Fleur’s going to be there, and that girl can drink . . .”

“ _Please_ , Darcy. Oh, please, please, please, please, please, please—”

“Plus, Mrs. Weasley’s cooking is better than any house-elf’s.”

“—please, please, please, please, please—”

“Would you shut the fuck up, please?”

Emily does as she’s asked, but continues to smile at Darcy all the same.

Darcy rubs her temples. She isn’t sure if it’s the stale smoke sitting in the air that’s giving her a headache, or if it’s Emily’s annoyingly desperate plea repeated over and over and over again. “You drive me fucking insane sometimes, do you know that?”

“You sound like Cuffe,” Emily scoffs. When she catches sight of the unamused look on Darcy’s face, she laughs. “You’ve been spending too much time with him. How do I drive you insane, but he doesn’t?”

“I’d like to meet this Barnabas Cuffe one day,” Gemma sighs. She turns a wicked smile on Emily, slouched over in the comfy armchair by the fire. While she’s since given up smoking (for the night, anyway), the sickening smell of smoke lingers in the air from the cigarettes Darcy and Gemma have been helping themselves to. “Is he handsome?”

“No,” both Darcy and Emily reply at the same time, sharing a knowing look.

“You could meet him at Slughorn’s Christmas party,” Emily says excitedly. “Cuffe invited me as his plus one—as a favor for Darcy, not as like, a date.”

Gemma frowns, reaching forward from the sofa to ash her cigarette in a freshly cleaned ashtray. “I haven’t gotten an invitation. Is there a rule against daughters of Death Eaters or something?”

Darcy brightens instantly. “I’m sure I could get you an invite to the party if I asked.”

“No, please. I don’t want to be a burden.” Gemma seems short about it, but doesn’t allow anyone time to answer. “Are you coming to the Burrow for Christmas, then? You can’t really expect us to just leave you here alone over the holidays, do you?”

“All right,” Darcy says, running a hand through her hair. “I’ll go back for Christmas. Maybe I’ll stay at Remus’, just to keep the head count down at the Burrow.”

Emily glances at Darcy, but for once—thankfully—she keeps her mouth shut. “Isn’t the whole point of Christmas _not_ to be alone?” she asks. “Stay with me instead. I told you, it’s safe there.”

“I guess I’ll—”

Three quick knocks on the door make all three of them jump.

Gemma and Darcy rush to put out their cigarettes, and Emily fumbles with her wand to Vanish the smoke and light a few candles placed randomly around the room. Another three knocks make them jump again.

“Who the fuck knocks like that?” Gemma hisses, coughing as she sprays Darcy’s perfume around their heads.

“Snape,” Darcy mutters grudgingly, getting to her feet before he can knock again.

But when she swings open the door, it isn’t Snape standing on the other side. Darcy straightens up immediately, blushing, very surprised to find Dumbledore waiting patiently without. She hasn’t seen him for weeks, and even now a velvet traveling clock adorns his thin shoulders, a weary and exhausted look about his wrinkled face. Blue eyes glance past her, over her shoulder, to catch Gemma attempting to clean up the table of empty and half-empty wine bottles. Darcy looks over her other shoulder, and sees Gemma has the grace to look slightly abashed.

“I did not realize you had company,” he says, raising his eyebrows. Even in his voice, there’s a note of impatience and exasperation.

“I asked Professor McGonagall,” Darcy answers quickly, feeling defensive. “She said it was all right—”

Dumbledore holds up a hand for silence. His good hand, she notices. “A word is all I ask. Alone, if you please.” He nods at each of the girls in turn, half-greeting and half-dismissal. “Miss Duncan. Miss Smythe.”

“We’ll . . .” Emily says shiftily, looking sideways at Gemma as they both squeeze past Darcy. “Go rummage around in the kitchens for a bit, sir.”

Dumbledore nods again, allowing them to pass. When they are gone, Darcy takes a step back to allow him entry. A creeping sense of dread has suddenly overcome her, knowing that she will face nothing but fury about the injuries Snape had sustained. She tries not to let it show on her face, but the image of Snape with his dark red blood pooling in the snow around him is an image she can’t quite shake right now, and it’s hard to hide her expression then. She wonders if Dumbledore will take notice of the cloak hanging by the door, Snape’s cloak that she’s yet to give back, and that he’s yet to come reclaim.

“I’m so sorry for the mess, Professor,” Darcy breathes, her heart leaping in her throat. “No one told me that I should be expecting you.”

“I do not plan on lingering long,” Dumbledore replies, seating himself in the armchair that Emily had just been occupying, and smoothing out the wrinkles in his fading gray robes. “I came to set some affairs in order before setting off again. Professor McGonagall must have been sleeping in the entrance hall in the hopes of recalling your adventure to Perth as soon as I set foot inside of Hogwarts.” He watches her closely as she stoops to pick up the three empty wine glasses. “Please sit, Darcy.”

Darcy hesitates, lowering the glasses back onto the long coffee table and sitting on the sofa. “Professor, you don’t have to say anything,” she tells him quickly, less than fond of having to relive the incident that still haunts her nightmares. “I swear to you, I’ll never leave the castle again, I swear it, I never meant to hurt him—”

“Do you have any idea what you could have done, Darcy?”

His voice is a thunderclap, one that makes her pull her knees to her chest. Darcy shrinks back into the sofa, clenching her fists tight, not wanting to remember the way the blood had shone on her palms, bright red and warm, steaming in the cold air.

“Do you believe me an old fool?” Dumbledore asks, his mouth drawn tight. There is a rage in him that Darcy’s never seen, and the false comfort that his absence had brought her in the past few weeks only serves to make it worse. “Do you think there is anything I do not know regarding your whereabouts? Do you think I am ignorant to your plots? Your schemes to free yourself of the castle you call a cage?” When Darcy doesn’t answer, it only makes him angrier, but she doesn’t know what to say that won’t sound childish and stupid. “You could have lost us the war in a single stroke by convincing Severus to accompany you . . . do you have any idea the irreversible damage you could have done?”

“No, sir,” Darcy finally croaks, feeling it’s probably best to just say what he wants to say. Tears well up in her eyes. She’s seven again, standing in front of Vernon, trying to explain how she’d floated down from the tree in the backyard after losing her footing. “I wasn’t thinking, sir.”

“You do not—nor have you ever—considered the consequences of your actions. You have never bothered to try and understand the position that I have put you in—a position that many would be far more grateful for. You have never bothered to understand the gravitas of the situation you are in, and your power to bend others to your will—”

“I don’t do that,” Darcy interrupts meekly. Dumbledore’s going overboard, she thinks. She doesn’t have the power to bend others to her will, nor does she not recognize the severity of her actions or the seriousness of the state of the world. “I don’t _force_ anyone to do anything for me.”

“I spoke to both you and Severus at the beginning of the year about your working relationship,” Dumbledore continues, as if she hasn’t spoken at all. Perhaps she hadn’t. Perhaps she’d only spoken in her head. The words had been quiet enough. “Given your brief history, I had not imagined that staying away from each other would be so difficult. Listen to me now, Darcy, for I will not say it again.” Darcy holds her breath. “Whatever is happening between you and Severus, I am putting an end to it right now. Whatever it is you want—a family, security, stability—you will not get it from Severus. If Voldemort gets even the faintest whiff of anything sincere happening between the two of you, Severus will die a traitor’s death.”

At first, it seems a reasonable request. Darcy tries to picture her days without Snape in them, confined to Slughorn’s classroom, her own office, and the Great Hall for meals, where they could share a knowing look before returning to their own rooms. But something doesn’t sit well with her. It isn’t like she doesn’t know their friendship is dangerous, but if it was too much, Snape would stop it, wouldn’t he? Snape, of all people, would stop something before going too far, wouldn’t he?

Darcy lowers her legs, looking down at her hands in her lap. “That’s not fair,” she murmurs, and of course Dumbledore doesn’t hear her, old man that he is. He leans in to hear her better, and Darcy finds a shred of courage within her, looking up into Dumbledore’s face. “That’s not _fair_!”

“Why?” Dumbledore asks innocently, but he seems slightly affronted.

“First you took Sirius away from me, and he’s dead now, and I’ll never get back all the years I could have spent with him.” Darcy ticks them off on her long fingers. “Then you took Remus from me, and placed him in the middle of a dangerous werewolf community, knowing that it’s very possible he won’t come back.” She swallows the lump in her throat and pushes on. “And then you take Harry, giving him important lessons without me, forcing me away from the last of my family. And now Professor Snape.”

“I can assure you that Remus is still alive and whole,” Dumbledore says, which makes her feel slightly better, but not enough to curb her anger. After a long silence, Dumbledore clasps his hands together, one healthy and one blackened and dying. “Tell me the truth about you and Severus, Darcy. What has happened?”

The question takes her by such surprise that it takes her a moment to answer. When she does speak, Dumbledore hardly appears to believe her. “Nothing,” she rasps.

Dumbledore wets his lips, looking curiously at her, and very skeptical. “Severus told me the same thing.” He pushes himself to his feet, towering over Darcy as she remains on the sofa. “I would hope that you would remember your duty to another man who is fighting for a future with you.”

Darcy wants to fight back. The anger boils steadily. What is the worst Dumbledore could do, she wonders? He could confine her to this room like a prison cell, forcing her to eat alone and be alone with her thoughts all day. He could send her back to Privet Drive, but if Aunt Petunia didn’t want her around, the Tuttles might be willing to take her in. But what would she tell them? Who’s to say a Dementor wouldn’t find its way back to Privet Drive? Who’s to say a couple of Death Eaters wouldn’t show up and kill them all? Would Dumbledore knowingly send Darcy to her death for disobedience?

It takes her a moment to realize her anger does not stem from just his carefully worded advice to her, but the _truth_ of those words. How would it seem to Lupin if he were to come home and find that Darcy’s been parading about with Snape? There’s no doubt in her mind that her last duelling lesson was positively _romantic_ compared with other past experiences with Snape. Lupin would see it for romance the moment he returned, and Darcy wouldn’t even be able to deny it, no matter how much she wanted to.

_But he left you,_ some deep buried voice reminds her.

“Isn’t this what you wanted?” Darcy asks, her icy courtesy completely gone. “All those times you asked me if I was being kind to Professor Snape? All those times you tried to convince me that Professor Snape isn’t a bad man? And now you’re angry that we’re being too kind to each other?”

Dumbledore looks down his long, crooked nose at her, eyes gleaming behind the half-moon spectacles, the firelight reflected in them. “Perhaps some fault does lie with me,” he admits. “Perhaps I thought Severus saw too much of your father in you to ever . . . well . . . I’ve taken too much of your time, and I’ve no doubt your friends are eager to rejoin your company. Until next time.”

Darcy watches him with nothing short of incredulity, his casual brushing himself off, adjusting the clasp of his cloak.

“Oh, and one more thing, Darcy,” Dumbledore says once more, looking down on her. “There will be no more Hogsmeade trips.” Dumbledore’s tone brooks no argument. “If you decide, as you inevitably will, to attempt to toe the line, I will know, and I will not be so kind the next time we speak.”

“What will you do, then?” she asks quietly. “Send me home?”

“No,” he answers. “But I will pull you from classes.”

His sudden appearance and too quick disappearance give her whiplash, not half enough time to process everything.

When Darcy’s friends let themselves back in (they’d been so patiently waiting in Darcy’s office, and not pressing their ears to the door, not even a little bit, according to Emily), she doesn’t even feel a part of the group. The glasses are washed and filled with wine again and Gemma lights a cigarette and Emily takes a picture of Gemma with Darcy’s camera. It’s only when Gemma’s eyes fix on Darcy for a long time does she drop the charade.

“Why do you let Dumbledore walk all over you like that?” Gemma scoffs, as if she would have stood her ground, fought back with venom.

“He’s the Headmaster,” Darcy replies coolly. “He’s given me this room and my job. I can’t disrespect him more than I already have.”

“You mean by going to Perth?” Gemma snorts, filling Darcy with rage. “No one knew that Dementors would be keeping watch in Perth. He can’t blame you for leaving the castle. I’m telling you, you could walk right out that door and he couldn’t do anything about it.”

Darcy grinds her teeth. “I can’t just leave.”

“Why not?” There’s anger in Gemma’s voice now, anger that hadn’t been present a moment ago. It makes Darcy look up and into her face. “You could go live at Remus’ until he gets back. You could even live at Grimmauld Place, if you wanted.”

Darcy turns away, facing Emily. Emily isn’t angry, but she’s wary—she can sense the storm brewing, but refuses to speak. Her blue eyes shift sheepishly from Gemma to the glass of wine in her hands.

Gemma laughs mirthlessly, her voice soft. “Dumbledore was right, wasn’t he? You and Snape—”

“Professor Snape and I are friendly, nothing more,” Darcy insists, already feeling the first tears spring to action. “Maybe there have been moments between us where I thought . . . well, it doesn’t matter—”

“You’re fucking him,” Gemma hisses, standing so abruptly it makes Darcy jump. “You’re fucking Snape.”

“I’m not,” she says, but the tears don’t make her truth look any more believable. “Gemma, I swear to you—why are you so angry?”

“Darcy,” Gemma says through gritted teeth, looking as if prepared to strangle Darcy. “I have been _dreading_ the day my parents find a husband for me. I dread it because I know that whoever my husband will be, it will be someone with that vile brand on their arm.” She looks to Emily in silent appeal, but her face is severe and her jaw set. “And here you are . . . gallivanting around with a Death Eater while Remus is out risking his neck for you.”

“For _me_.” Darcy scowls. “That’s such bullshit, and you know it. That’s only what he tells himself so he doesn’t feel guilty about leaving me.”

Gemma looks positively distraught, on the verge of tears. _She is still beautiful even when she is sad_ , Darcy thinks. “I thought we were supposed to be a family,” she says in a tone that nearly breaks Darcy’s heart.

“I’m sorry,” Darcy retorts, crossing her arms over her chest. “I had no idea you were so personally invested in my relationship.”

Gemma looks as if Darcy’s slapped her. The color has drained from her face, and her dark eyes are heavy with regret and disappointment. “You were my best friends,” she tells Darcy, setting her wine glass back on the table and putting out her cigarette. “I don’t want to choose sides, Darcy, but I will not choose Snape. Let’s go, Emily.”

“Wh—?” Emily looks around, clearly disappointed that she’s been pulled into the conversation finally. She remains seated, looking from the firm expression on Gemma’s face and the determined one on Darcy’s. “Oh . . . Gemma . . . I don’t know . . . Lupin did leave her after expressing a desire for her to commit, and—” Though Darcy’s sure Emily is only defending her to keep up appearances, it still makes her feel better.

“Unbelievable, the both of you.” Gemma shakes her head. She looks directly at Darcy, pulling her cloak off the coat rack, the same one that still holds Snape’s. “You’ve no idea what Snape has done. He was a Death Eater, a volunteer, standing alongside those like Bellatrix Lestrange and her dreadful husband. He’s hurt people, Darcy.”

“If you care so much for the way Remus is treated, then why don’t you go take him for yourself?”

Gemma wraps her cloak around her shoulders, scoffing and rolling her eyes. “Emily, let’s go.”

Emily looks reluctant to go, glancing shyly at Darcy, putting her things back on the table and rising, as well. “Sorry, Darcy,” she murmurs, passing by her.

Gemma lingers at the door as Emily puts her coat on painfully slowly, buttoning all the buttons one by one. “I know you miss him,” Gemma says one more time, chewing on the inside of her cheek when Darcy turns on the sofa to look. “And I know you want someone to love you. But there’s a world and a war going on outside Hogwarts’ walls that you conveniently seem to forget.”

And with that, Gemma and Emily leave her.

_I haven’t forgotten_ , Darcy thinks to herself. _It’s just hard to see it from my stone cage._


	26. Chapter 26

When nothing happens by the end of the second week after Dumbledore’s mysterious visit, Darcy reluctantly accepts defeat.

Not a single word, or touch, or look. No silent acknowledgment when they cross paths in the corridors, a failure to attend any further dueling practices, complete resistance on his end when it comes to any means of communicating. After two weeks of this, Darcy comes to finally realize that Professor Snape has no interest in gout against Dumbledore’s wishes. He hasn’t asked after the cloak that still hangs in her room, hasn’t mentioned anything about going to Slughorn’s party together—although, she had overheard a conversation between Snape and Slughorn in the staff room on the tenth day, and Snape had made it pretty clear he wouldn’t be attending at all.

“Nonsense!” Slughorn had boomed, puffing his chest out dramatically. “Darcy will be there! Won’t you, Darcy?”

Darcy had looked up from her book to catch Snape’s eye, but his were firmly fixed upon the ground. “Yes, I will be,” she’d answered.

Snape had excused himself from the staff room without another word, leaving a very baffled Slughorn behind, looking helplessly towards Darcy for some kind of explanation.

She would never admit it to anyone, but four days in a row now she’s cried herself to sleep. The dreams that follow are worse in completely different ways; either she dreams of herself covered in Snape’s warm blood, crying hysterically over his body, or she dreams of his touch, smooth fingers gliding lightly over her skin. The latter are humiliating and make her entire body blush, and even though it’s impossible, it always feel like Lupin will somehow know what she’s been dreaming.

It’s not like she _asked_ for these dreams. It’s not as if she spends her waking hours fantasizing about Snape. In truth, she misses and loves Lupin more than she can say, but it’s just that . . . he isn’t here. When Darcy’s needed comfort, Snape has been there to give it to her. Every time she’s needed someone to listen, or someone to escort her somewhere, or to reassure her, Snape has been there, time and time again.

And sometimes, or more recently, over the summer, Darcy isn’t sure Lupin is the same person she’d known at Hogwarts, and it frightens her. Once, he had been passionate about all kinds of things, about poetry and literature and teaching and chess, and she can’t remember the last time she’s seen his eyes light up at the mention of something. When was the last time they had made love in a way that didn’t feel possessive and full of grief and anger?

But she knows him, knows that he is kind and patient and gentle when she needs him to be. He has always treated her like the adult she is, always understanding and willing to listen. That’s why she’d fallen in love with him in the first place—she can remember Defense class after Defense class of watching him and absorbing absolutely nothing, smiles flashed her way in the Great Hall that made her queasy and her knees weak, listening to him read and being unable to look away from his mouth. Darcy must have poured half her soul into Lupin just during seventh year. How easy it was to confess to him, anything and everything. She had kept nothing from him, confiding in him her deepest fears and desires, only to hear his in return.

And now there are secrets—on both ends, to be sure. His specific whereabouts still remain a mystery to her, what he does there and how long he’ll be there all kept to himself, even much about his boyhood is unknown to her, though she’d gotten bits and pieces from Sirius. And she, with her own well-kept secrets, of stolen moments with Professor Snape, of touches and thoughts and almosts, of feelings she never thought possible. It feels as if she and Lupin are worlds away from each other, and if only he’d come home, maybe things would be different, and Darcy would remember all those reasons she loves him so.

_If he comes home before Christmas, I swear I’ll never look at or think about another man ever again_.

And if he doesn’t?

Maybe Emily is right. She shouldn’t throw away everything she’s built with Lupin just for a few more stolen moments with Snape. She knows nothing could ever come of it, and she’d told him so on the night of her arrival at Hogwarts. She told him so because she didn’t want anything to come of it. But whatever she feels now, Dumbledore has decidedly put an end to it.

_That’s not fair_ , she tells herself, over and over. It’s Dumbledore’s fault in the first place for her closeness to Snape. _He_ had been the one to insist they be kind to one another by putting them together for two years. It was because of Dumbledore that she’d seen parts of Snape she never knew even existed—the part of him that cares about her, even if it pains him to admit it. And Darcy, ever the romantic, had played right into Snape’s hands, had developed feelings for him either suddenly or gradually, she isn’t quite sure.

Whatever she feels for Snape, and whatever he feels for her . . . she doesn’t want it to end. She’s already told Dumbledore she isn’t returning next year, and the prospect of leaving Snape forever is daunting. If these last months here at Hogwarts are all the time she and Snape have left, she doesn’t want it to end like this.

She cannot say he isn’t dangerous. Perhaps that’s what draws her to him so. A single careless word or confession could be her own undoing, as well as Harry’s or the Order’s. She knows he would never willingly divulge her secrets to Voldemort (would he?), and yet she would never blame Snape for doing so under torture or the threat of losing something he holds dear. She would do the same, most like (would she?).

But what can she do? Confess that she loves him? Even if Snape did affirm his feelings for her, nothing could happen, and come June, both of them will be left with nothing but empty words and what-ifs. And it’s not like Snape doesn’t already know how she feels—she isn’t exactly private about it, and he knows her well enough to read her mind without even having to delve into it with Legilimency. It’s Snape’s fault that he hasn’t acted on that, that he hasn’t shown her how he really feels.

If she told him that she isn’t coming back next year, however . . . maybe it would encourage him to act, to show her all the reasons she should stay at Hogwarts. But it would all be futile; unless Snape can give her a good reason to stay at Hogwarts with him, and she doubts that very much, Darcy won’t come back.

_Careful, Darcy_ , she tells herself, rolling over to bury her face in her pillow. _You’re in dangerous thinking territory_. She groans loudly. All she wants is to be kissed again, touched. She wants to feel someone between her legs again, to have someone help her towards release after weeks and weeks and weeks of being alone. _Remus will come back soon,_ _he must_ , she thinks. _And when he does, he’ll put a baby in me . . ._

Her loneliness will surely kill her at this point.

_Please come home, Remus_ , she cries silently. _Please come home soon_.

* * *

“. . . so, what I’m saying is, after I caught her out of bed, I had to go report it to Professor Sprout, and I didn’t get back until nearly midnight, and—”

“Ernie,” Darcy sighs, putting down her quill and looking up from her desk. He smiles at her, his round cheeks pink. “Did you do the essay or not?”

Ernie clears his throat, rocking back and forth on her feet. “That’s what I was saying—by the time I got back to—”

Darcy rubs her temples. “If I give you until tomorrow to turn in your essay, will you please leave my office?”

His eyes widen and he straightens up, smiling and clasping his hands together as if in prayer. “Yes, thank you, thank you, Darcy, I . . . you’ll still give me full credit, won’t you?”

“Ernie,” Darcy says again, annoyed. “Get out.”

“You know,” Ernie continues, and Darcy raises her eyebrows. “If you really didn’t want to be disturbed, you should have just shut yourself in your room.”

“I _did_ shut myself in my room, and you _still_ came knocking.”

Ernie flushes, stuttering and stammering as he tries to defend himself. To be fair, it hasn’t been only Ernie lingering outside, and sometimes inside, her office—Hermione had been the one to tell others that Darcy wouldn’t mind helping with Potions assignments that other students were having trouble with, but it has only caused trouble. It unsurprisingly turns out that most of the Potions students favor her over Slughorn, leading her office to normally be occupied with someone coming up with some stupid question. And even more unsurprisingly, many students are rather bitter about not having had received an invitation to Slughorn’s exclusive Christmas party, and it seems many of those students are not above asking her to take them.

“It was an emergency,” he mumbles, looking down at his scuffed shoes.

“And what was your emergency?” Darcy asks innocently, giving him a forced and knowing smile.

He clears his throat one more time, obnoxiously and pompously. Darcy, wanting nothing more in the entire world than to give Ernie her undivided attention, waits for him to speak. “I needed . . .” Seemingly picking up the hint, Ernie becomes less confident with his speech. “I needed a deadline extension for a piece of homework.”

Darcy hums, nodding slowly. “Is that it, then?”

“Well, actually, I was thinking . . . Slughorn’s having that Christmas party in a few weeks, isn’t he?” Ernie runs a hand through light brown hair, rubbing the back of his neck. “I must have . . . misplaced my invitation or something, but . . . I thought maybe we could go together. You know, we’re friends and all.”

Darcy shakes her head. She can’t pretend she hadn’t seen this coming. “No, I’m not taking you to Slughorn’s Christmas party with me. Um,” she hesitates, tilting her head side to side and unsure if he’s being completely serious. “I don’t know if it’s slipped your notice or perhaps you’ve just forgotten . . . _again_ . . . but I’m your teacher.”

“Are you?” he asks, trailing off at the end. “I mean, if you were really my teacher, wouldn’t I have to call you ‘Professor’ or something?”

“Okay,” she says quickly, unclasping her hands to make her point as she speaks. “Ernie, I am happy to help you if you have any questions about lessons or homework or if you are truly desperate for another extension for your essay, but . . . _please_ stop coming to my office to ask about Slughorn’s Christmas party. I’ve absolutely zero interest in going to a party with a sixteen-year-old boy.”

“Fine,” Ernie huffs, crossing his arms over his puffed out chest. “But just so you know, Neville Longbottom is planning on asking you to take him, Justin is planning on cornering you in the classroom on Friday, and I don’t think Terry Boot is above spiking your coffee with a love potion to get you to say yes.”

Darcy blinks at the boy in surprise. He almost reminds her of Gavin, back when he was a young boy with a bit more weight on him, hair combed neatly to the side, cheeks round and pink. “That doesn’t sound like Terry Boot,” she tells Ernie, narrowing her eyes, misliking the casual way he’s thrown out the accusation. “I’m not going to a stupid party with some kid, especially some kid who can’t find it in him to write his Potions essays by the assigned deadline.”

Ernie falters, struggling to pull himself back together. “Well, I—that’s just—I heard the Weird Sisters are going to be there—”

“Ernie, I’m flattered. Truly, I am.” Darcy picks up her quill from the desktop and dips it quickly into the ink bottle. “Now get out of my office, and tell your friends that from now on, I’m taking five points every time I have to say the word _no_.”

He groans dramatically, but let’s himself out all the same. Darcy pauses for a moment, watching the closed door and listening to Ernie’s footsteps fade as he heads further down the corridor. It’s only then that she sets her quill down again, scoffing as she pushes her hair out of her face.

_I’m turning into Professor Snape._

A few minutes after Darcy returns to her work, someone knocks on her door. “Come in,” she calls, but she knows by the rhythm of the knock that it’s only Hermione, come to take over her desk with all of her books, finishing her homework and taking advantage of Darcy’s company to ask as many questions as possible.

As expected, Hermione pays little heed to any of Darcy’s things, from the four novels stacked on the corner, to the ink bottle with her quill standing in it, to the rolls of parchment that are the half-graded essays of her friends. _Advanced Potion Making, Confronting the Faceless_ , and _A Guide to Advanced Transfiguration_ are slammed on top of it all, toppling over the ink bottle and making Darcy’s desk rattle. She watches Hermione dig around in her bag for some fresh parchment and a pencil.

Darcy sighs, leaning back in her chair, tipping it into two legs. Her own two legs find their way atop the desk, her feet resting on the only clean corner of her desk. With her arms folded over her chest, she waits for Hermione to speak, expecting something to be said about Ernie Macmillan storming from her office, but nothing comes. However, Hermione says nothing, opening _Confronting the Faceless_ about halfway through and brushing her hair out of her face with her fingers.

“Look,” Darcy says casually. “I’ve been thinking that, maybe, you could spread the word that it’s a little inappropriate for students to be asking me to Slughorn’s party.”

Hermione looks up sheepishly from her book. “I know,” she frowns, apologetic enough. “Neville really wants to go, and Cormac and Ritchie Coote placed a bet on whether or not you’d go with Ritchie.”

Darcy narrows her eyes, lowering her feet from her desk and allowing her chair to thump back onto four legs. “How much did they bet?”

“I don’t know,” Hermione says irritably, returning to her schoolwork. “Three Galleons, I think.”

“Wh— _three_ Galleons?” Darcy splutters, huffing and puffing and scoffing. “Three _Galleons_?”

“I didn’t set the amount, Darcy, so don’t be mad at me.”

“I’m not mad at you,” Darcy sighs. “I just . . . thought I’d be worth a little more than _three_ Galleons.”

Hermione looks up again, this time looking surprisingly pleased. “It’s Lavender’s fault, you know. She’s the one who told everyone that you’ve got an invitation to Slughorn’s party and no one to take with you.” She smiles almost wickedly. “Not like she’ll be going, anyway. Ron wasn’t invited, and I don’t think Lavender will be very happy if I asked him to come. Be grateful no one’s schemed to use a love potion on you, yet. I’ve already heard Romilda Vane plotting in the girls bathroom about dosing Harry.”

“Please tell me you confiscated—”

“She didn’t have one on her. What did you want me to do? Pat her down?”

She can’t argue with that, but Darcy makes a mental note to test her drinks from now on, and to refuse any gifts, just in case. “Who are you going with, then?” Darcy asks, definitely not missing the way Hermione’s cheeks turn pink. She looks back down at her book again, not really reading anything. “Come on, tell me.”

“No one yet,” Hermione confesses carefully. “But I’ve been thinking. What do you think about me going with Zacharias Smith?”

Darcy tries to read Hermione’s expression, laughing. “I’m sorry, I thought you said you were thinking about going to the party with _Zacharias Smith_.”

Hermione doesn’t look amused in the slightest, but she has the grace to look slightly abashed. “I thought it would annoy Ron,” she finally says shrilly.

Darcy runs her hands through her hair, groaning at the ceiling. “Hermione, that’s exactly what I told you _not_ to do!” She groans again, and Hermione bristles. “Is that not what I told you not to do? Did you listen to me at all?”

“No offense, Darcy, but you don’t have the greatest relationship advice sometimes,” Hermione protests.

“Well . . . I mean . . . like Emily knows any better!” Darcy blushes, scowling furiously across the desk at Hermione.

Hermione smiles smugly. “Emily didn’t spend half of seventh year pining after her teacher.”

“No, but she spent all of sixth year pining after Lockhart,” Darcy retorts sharply. “And so did you.”

That shuts Hermione up quickly, causing her entire face to go as red as a tomato. The mention of Darcy’s secretive love affair is still a touchy subject, seeing that it was—in hindsight—a terrible idea with a relatively good outcome. If she’s being truthful, she would have expected Lockhart to have an affair before Lupin, but something tells her Lockhart likely didn’t have many problems in regards to women. Thinking about Lockhart at all still makes her squirm, however, remembering forcibly the scene in the Chamber of Secrets, the blank look upon his face after his Memory Charm had backfired, the absolutely moronic man that had almost erased her memories—

“Darcy, are you even listening to me?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, well, I'll just say it again in case your daydream cut across my advice.” Hermione frowns, her eyebrows creased together. “You should just find someone to bring to the party so people will stop asking you. I gave the same advice to Harry, but . . . he seems just as reluctant to take it as you.”

Darcy exhales loudly through her nose. “It’s not like I have other men lining up to go with me, and Remus likely wouldn’t go even if he had the chance. I’ll probably end up going with Cuffe.”

“I thought Cuffe was going to bring Emily.”

Darcy chuckles mirthlessly, suddenly very sad. “She decided not to come after all.” Clearing her throat and hoping to jump off this particular topic, Darcy looks down at Hermione’s book. “What does Snape have you doing?”

“We’re finishing up with non-verbal spells before holiday,” Hermione explains.

“Oh.” Darcy watches Hermione’s eyes rove the page for a moment, wondering how much she could out of the younger girl. “Has Professor Snape—has he, like—said anything about me?”

Hermione looks up slowly, bewildered. “Um,” she says, thinking. “No . . . not to me, no. Was he supposed to?”

“No,” Darcy scoffs, overdoing it a little bit, because Hermione immediately looks suspicious. She can feel her cheeks reddening under Hermione’s gaze and knows that, if Hermione has half the wits everyone says she does, the game is over. “I don’t even—I hate him. He’s repulsive. I don’t—I don’t even care. He can say what he wants—I—he’s a nightmare.”

Hermione nods slowly, still looking at her with those wide brown eyes. “He _has_ been a nightmare,” she agrees, still not sure what’s happened. “He’s been handing out detentions left and right, and I don’t think I’ve ever heard someone grind their teeth half so loudly. My parents would throw a fit if they had to sit in the classroom with him.”

Darcy falters upon this innocent confession. It’s exactly what she was looking for . . . but is it her that’s the cause of Snape’s foul mood, or something else? If she’s being fair, she hasn’t been in a great mood herself, lately. She had taken the liberty in classes to start taking House points whenever someone annoys her by talking out of turn, and her patience with the students is beginning to wear thin.

“And you know what, Darcy?” Hermione asks sharply, bringing Darcy out of her reverie. “ _You_ could stand to be a bit kinder during class _and_ out of it, as well.”

Darcy knows it’s true, and feels sorry. “I’ve been on edge.”

“You’re high strung.”

“That’s rich, coming from you.”

_What did Hermione ever do to me_? Darcy asks herself. _At least Hermione has come to see me, when no one else will._

They lapse into a comfortable silence for a few minutes, the only sounds the flipping of book pages or the scribbling of Hermione’s quill. Darcy takes a moment to appreciate it, a few minutes where Hermione isn’t chattering her ear off. And then, the silence is grating, and the scribbling of the quill makes her head pound.

Darcy clears her throat and shifts, making the chair creak. “Why don’t you go down to the library?”

“I like being in here,” Hermione answers casually.

There’s another silence, half as long this time. “Yeah,” Darcy says softly, still looking at the top of Hermione’s head as she scratches away on her parchment. Finally, she picks up a novel and opens it to a bookmarked page. She props her feet back up on the corner of her desk. “I like having you here, too.”

* * *

“I swear it! It was like being a bird, with wings on either side of me.” Darcy holds out her arms to demonstrate, earning herself a smile from Barnabas Cuffe. “I couldn’t possibly describe to you what it felt like. But, truthfully, I’d rather not fly at all.”

“I heard your brother is quite the Quidditch player,” Cuffe chuckles. “Duncan’s told me he’s a Seeker, and a damn good one.”

“He’s absolutely wonderful,” Darcy answers excitedly. “You should watch him play one day. He’s fantastic.”

They make small talk through dinner, a late dinner in the Great Hall, as Professor McGonagall was loathe to allow him into Darcy’s room without anyone to mediate or to keep an eye on her. It’s not a terrible atmosphere; most of the students have returned to their common rooms, but a few sixth and seventh year students do some last minute studying as the stars come out one by one, but it’s nearing curfew for them, too. And it’s not as if the house-elves have saved them only leftovers to dine on, but cornish game hen and roasted potatoes and buttery turnips and radishes—a meal they would never get in the Three Broomsticks. They had even supplied Darcy with red wine, and cold water for Cuffe.

“I’ve been thinking,” Darcy says.

“Dangerous, but go on.”

She smiles mischievously at him over her cup. “Due to a lack of options here, I’ve been unable to find a date to Slughorn’s party. Though, I’ve had no lack of students asking me to be my plus one.” They laugh together as the last of the students trickle out of the Great Hall for their common rooms. “Maybe we could go together. It would be nice to have someone familiar with me.”

Cuffe chortles, wiping the corners of his mouth with a cloth napkin. “You want to go with me?”

Darcy flushes. “If you do. It doesn’t have to be a date.”

This makes him laugh harder, and makes Darcy blush harder, as well. “If I wanted to go on a date with you, Potter, I certainly wouldn’t take you to Slughorn’s party.” He eyes her curiously, as if she’s some antique trinket waiting to be sold. “All right, I’ll meet you in the entrance hall at eight before the party.”

She brightens instantly, the stress of the party suddenly washed away. “My dress is green,” she tells him. “Don’t forget.”

“I won’t forget, don’t worry.” Cuffe leans forward and his face takes on a very serious expression. “I think we should keep mingling to a minimum, and we could be out of there by ten.”

Darcy laughs quietly. “I think I’d be all right with that. Fine, we’ll mingle as quickly and as little as possible.”

“And I don’t dance,” he continues. “Thought maybe I should tell you now. I’ve never been a fair dancer.”

“That’s fine,” she assures him, though Darcy thinks it would be very sweet to dance with someone if the opportunity arises. “And if I get too drunk, take me back to my room immediately before I make a fool of myself.”

“Start drinking early, and might be we’ll be out of there even sooner.”

“You’re quite the schemer, aren’t you?”

“You have to possess some kind of . . . low cunning to work in the field I do.”

“You must show me how it’s done, then,” Darcy says, grinning at him.

“You’ll learn, if you have a genuine interest in journalism.”

Darcy goes to respond, but is interrupted by the clearing of a throat. “Mr. Cuffe,” comes McGonagall’s sharp voice, her shoes click-clacking on the flagged stone floor, several books piled high in her arms. “It’s been quite long enough. Shouldn’t you be leaving soon?”

“Oh, come now, Minerva!” Cuffe and Darcy share a knowing smile, and she returns to the last of her food as he speaks. “I told you, we’re on official _Prophet_ business.”

McGonagall looks through her spectacles, down her thin nose at Darcy. “This is what the _Prophet_ considers official business, is it?” she asks pointedly, not at all happy to be speaking with Cuffe, it seems. “Getting a twenty-one-year-old girl drunk?”

“She thinks I’m trying to steal all your secrets, Potter. Would you believe it?” Cuffe raises his thick and wild eyebrows at McGonagall. “Have no fear, Minerva. Your Princess Potter and her secrets are safe with me. Besides, I don’t drink.”

“The better to remember everything she’s told you while inebriated, I’m sure.” Professor McGonagall clears her throat again and sets the books down on the table beside Darcy. “Say good-night, Potter. Cuffe has intruded upon Hogwarts’ hospitality long enough, and I’ve a favor to ask you.”

“I’ve already decorated the tree, gave Madam Pomfrey her Sleeping Draughs, and pruned the Shrivelfigs like you asked, and I even shaved them. Ask Professor Sprout if I’m lying.”

“I believe you, Potter,” McGonagall sighs exasperatedly. “Good-bye, Mr. Cuffe.”

Darcy and Cuffe say a quick, if not awkward, good-bye, and the empty plates and cups and cutlery suddenly vanishes from the tabletop. “Did you have to do that, Professor?” she asks, and she knows she must sound very childish whining the way she is. “He must be the last friend I’ve left to me, and you send him away like he’s a boyfriend of mine overstaying his welcome.”

Professor McGonagall doesn’t rise to the bait, but doesn’t change her mind, either. “I mislike you spending time alone with that man, especially drunk. He’s too powerful with the right secrets, and no doubt is plotting to steal some of your own, or your brother’s.”

“He isn’t like that,” Darcy says quickly, defensively. “He’s never once asked me for anything, secrets or no. We work together, is all, and he knows I’m lonely here.”

McGonagall doesn’t deign to press the issue, clearly done talking about it, even if Darcy isn’t. She picks up her stack of books again, the binding wearing and crumbling in places, parchment sticking out everywhere as bookmarks. “Take these books back to Severus for me,” she instructs Darcy, pushing the books into her chest. They’re far heavier than expected. “I borrowed them for a bit of research, but I’ve no need for them now.”

“Oh,” Darcy laughs nervously, trying to get a hold on all the books, her chin resting right on top. “Professor Dumbledore said I shouldn’t—”

“I know what Professor Dumbledore told you,” McGonagall interrupts, and something softens in her face that makes Darcy think she knows everything that Dumbledore said. “But _I’m_ telling you to bring these books back to Severus.”

Still, Darcy hesitates. “Can’t you just take them back yourself? Or . . . magic them to his office or something?”

“Well, you’re not doing anything at present. I see no reason as to why you should refuse.”

Darcy frowns, incredulous. “I _was_ doing something. I was having dinner with Cuffe until you so graciously shooed him away.” McGonagall is impervious to her anger, however, so she tries a different tack. “Please don’t make me go to his office, Professor.”

McGonagall decides to play the fool, angering Darcy. “Why not? Surely you’ve not forgotten the way?”

Blushing, Darcy falters. “Professor, please—!”

“Go, Potter. Those books have been sitting in my room untouched for days now. Severus is likely wondering what I’ve been doing with them for so long.”

“Professor McGonagall—”

“Potter,” McGonagall repeats, with the same derision Darcy had spoken her own name with. “Must I repeat myself again?”

Heaving a great sigh and giving McGonagall one last look (or more like a hard stare, just to get her point across), Darcy marches out of the Great Hall and begins to make her way to Snape’s office. The prospect doesn’t quite frighten her—now that the hour is so late, Snape will probably be hidden away in his own private room, or in bed. If she sets the books on his desk for him to find in the morning, she need not speak with or see him at all.

When she reaches the classroom, it’s dark, and she leaves it that way, finding her way by memory, allowing her eyes to adjust. She doesn’t want to see the morbid and disturbing imagery that Snape has set up along the classroom walls, anyway, nor does she want to see what’s in those jars he keeps on his shelves. Darcy knows there’s a brain in one, but she’s never quite worked up the courage to ask whose it is or why he has it.

Darcy fumbles outside his office door, holding on tight to all the books with one arm, using her chin and neck and stomach to keep them from falling, while reaching for the doorknob with her free hand.

“Fuck,” she breathes, her knees giving out as she works to keep the books from falling. The last thing she needs is for Snape to be angry with her for breaking any of the books—not like he couldn’t put them back together with magic, but still. Finally, she’s able to shoulder the door open, sighing in relief when she finds the office empty. The embers of a fire still glow in the fireplace, and the room smells of freshly blown candles. The moonlight streams in through the windows, shining brightly upon his tidy desk. A corked bottle of ink and an eagle feather quill are the only things on his desk, quite the contrast to Darcy’s, with parchment and books and ink spread out all over with no organization at all.

Darcy places the books on the corner of Snape’s desk, glancing quickly towards the hidden door. The office is completely silent, and there’s every sign that Snape has finished whatever work he was doing. If she weren’t mad at him, she wouldn’t think it, wouldn’t consider it, but she is mad at him, so the thought springs into life. She sits down in his chair, taking care to be as quiet as possible.

Without hesitation, Darcy opens one of the desk drawers with mounting curiosity. Unfortunately, there isn’t much to find. He keeps a few quills tucked away, more ink, some scraps of parchment. Nothing seems out of place, and there aren’t any interesting finds at all. _It’s not as if he’d keep things of importance in his desk drawers_ , she tells herself. Accepting defeat, Darcy opens the last drawer, and the moonlight glints off something that gives her pause.

Lifting it gingerly, Darcy examines the S.P.E.W. badge, a little dustier than the last time she’d seen it, but still in mint condition. She blows the dust off, swiping a thumb over it to clear the rest off before hearing the creaking of hinges, throwing the badge back into the drawer, slamming it shut and jumping abruptly to her feet.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m so sorry,” Darcy says quickly, turning pink as a fire suddenly blazes in the hearth, giving light to the office. “I didn’t meant to—I thought—I didn’t think you’d—”

“Why were you going through my things?” Snape demands of her, striding towards the desk and snatching one of her wrists to jerk her around, facing him. “What did you take?”

“I didn’t take anything, I swear,” she says, jerking her wrist from him. Darcy rubs it absently, her skin searing from the contact. _He’s always been so cold_ , she thinks, lowering her hands to her sides. “I’m sorry. I only came to return these books.”

Snape glances at the books, a crease appearing between his furrowed brows. “Those aren’t mine,” he states plainly, but not unkindly.

“What?”

“I said, those aren’t my books.”

“What do you mean they’re not your books? Professor McGonagall specifically stated that they were yours. That’s literally why I’m here.”

Snape gives an impatient shrug and a sigh, considering her carefully, as if trying to determine whether or not she’s lying. She wouldn’t even mind if he tried to use Occlumency just to prove herself. “I don’t know what to tell you. They’re not mine.”

Darcy huffs a few times angrily, crossing her arms over her chest. “She set me up,” she whispers to herself.

Snape looks at her as if she’s crazy, but it’s nothing she’s never seen before. “What?”

“Nothing,” Darcy answers, too quickly. “Just talking to myself.”

He narrows his eyes at her. “Are you drunk?”

Darcy scoffs. “No,” she says, knowing that it’s not enough to convince Snape otherwise. “Just . . . give me the books back, then, if they’re not yours.”

He gives a small shake of his head, taking a step away from her, towards the door. He’s still far too close for her comfort, however. “Leave them. I’ll put them away in the morning.”

“Okay.” Darcy blushes furiously. When had things ever been so awkward between them? Why does the sudden closeness of them make her so nervous? She must be drunk, to be nervous around Snape. “Okay, fine.”

She knows it’s the end of the conversation when he repeats, “Fine.” He crosses his arms as well, as if to make himself more frightening.

“I’ll just let myself out then.” Darcy clears her throat, her heart pounding. She claps her hands together, taking a single step backwards. “Just going to . . . go back to my room. You know . . . do some . . . work.”

Snape moves to his desk, slowly pulling open the drawer that he’d caught Darcy rummaging through. “Okay.”

“Okay,” Darcy rasps, turning clumsily to make for the door. She lets herself out quickly, slamming the office door shut and standing still as a statue in the dark classroom, her back to the door. “Prick,” she murmurs under her breath, taking a few steps forward, her hip colliding with the corner of a table. She holds back a scream, her eyes watering, swearing quietly at the table that’s likely bruised her soft skin.

As she reaches the classroom door, her hands fumbling blindly to avoid any other desks or tables or chairs or shelves, Darcy pauses, one hand on the doorknob. Maybe it’s the drink that makes her freeze, the liquid courage that makes her wonder if she should go back and tell him how she really feels, just to make him feel bad about not talking to her. Clearly their weeks long silence has not bothered him as much as it has bothered her (unless his nightmarish attitude in classes can be attributed to their severing ties), and it physically pains her to think he can go about his regular duties without even thinking of her.

Darcy’s legs take her back to Snape’s office door before she can even make her decision. She’s almost surprised to find herself standing there again, working up the last bit of courage to go inside. With a feeling of reckless abandon (and maybe a little bit of drunken stupidity), Darcy pushes the door open once more and walks as confidently as she can into his office, shutting the door with a snap behind her.

Snape closes the drawer, anger flashing in his eyes. It makes her falter, but only for a moment. He would never hurt her, he’d said so himself. Darcy has nothing to fear standing in front of him.

She exhales, infuriated. She steps up to his desk and slams her palms onto the desktop. He does the same, their faces mere inches apart. “I have something to say to you,” she tells him, her voice as icy as his own. “And don’t interrupt me.”

Snape’s dark eyes are wide with surprise as he looks at her, probably wondering what has possessed her with the audacity to speak to him like that. “Excuse me?” he hisses.

Darcy’s chest is heaving, and her mind goes far too fast for her to sort her thoughts. She says the first thing that comes to her. “You told me that you would take me to Slughorn’s Christmas party,” she begins breathlessly, suddenly very nervous about how he might react. “I really wanted to go with you.”

He doesn’t answer, allowing her time to continue brazenly.

“I thought you wanted to go with me, too.”

With his jaw clenched tight, he studies her face, as if it’s new to him. “I don’t have time to be going to juvenile—”

“You hurt my feelings.” The confession is so brash and childish that it makes Darcy’s stomach flutter.

Snape, for the first time, looks mildly ashamed of himself. _As he should_ , she thinks. _If only he knew that I cried myself to sleep for days_. Feeling she’s said what she’s needed to and gotten the guilty look she wanted, Darcy stands up tall and turns towards the door, pleased to hear him call her name right before she leaves.

“Perhaps . . .” Snape says slowly, painfully. His hands are held in front of him now, wringing anxiously. “Arrangements could be made—”

“You’re too late,” Darcy snaps at him, turning in such a hurry that her long red hair whips her in the face. “Cuffe’s already agreed to take me. So you got what you wanted. You don’t have to go to some _stupid_ , juvenile party!” She snatches at the books she’s brought him, as well, and snaps at him again when he attempts to help her after she drops two onto the floor. Frustrated tears spring to her eyes. “I’ve got it!” she yells, pulling away from him. “Leave me alone!”

Darcy leaves him, crying, the door to his classroom flying open for her—whether it’s her emotions running high, or Snape making sure she doesn’t run smack into the door, she isn’t sure. Upset, furious, humiliated, Darcy makes a beeline towards McGonagall’s office, seeing through swollen and tear-filled eyes, ignoring Nearly Headless Nick’s greeting by walking right through him, telling off Peeves, and stumbling as she remembers a trick step just in time, thankfully saving all the books in her arms.

Professor McGonagall is still awake in her office when Darcy storms inside, slamming the books on her desk and making everything on it rattle. Without a care in the world how McGonagall might react, Darcy shouts, “Don’t you _ever_ make a fool of me again! You set me up!”

Darcy swipes at her desk, knocking off some ink bottles, and they smash on the floor, spattering her shoes with ink.

“Are you quite done?” McGonagall asks, not at all amused or threatened in the slightest by Darcy’s behavior. When Darcy doesn’t answer, she continues. “I have known you for ten . . . long and exhaustible years, Potter. I have watched you grow from a timid little girl to the young woman you are now—”

“Oh, spare me—”

McGonagall makes a curt noise halfway between a close-mouthed screech and a growl, and Darcy takes that as her cue to be quiet. Removing her glasses and pinching the bridge of her nose, McGonagall sighs. “I do not know, nor do I _want_ to know what is going on between you and Severus,” she begins, replacing her glasses on her face. “But I do know that he has been . . . _decent_ to you, and let it be known that I trust the Headmaster’s judgement, but . . . not in this, Potter. Ending whatever—and I do not want to hear any details—was between you and Severus has not improved your situation in the slightest.”

Darcy falters for the first time, tucking her hair behind her ears, her cheeks burning. “There’s nothing going on between Professor Snape and I.”

“I told you I don’t want to hear details.”

Her hands jump to her face; would that they were a pillow for her to scream into. Darcy feels that she could truly strangle McGonagall now, or at least hex her, for her unwillingness to understand the idea of not meddling in her personal life. She fights hard to still the drunken rage inside of her, out of respect for McGonagall (or what little she has left for her), clenching her hands into fists at her sides, her fingernails digging into her palms.

“Goodnight, Professor McGonagall.”

* * *

“I don’t know, Potter, it seems like she was just trying to do you a favor. Maybe don’t be so hard on her, child.”

Darcy takes a loud bite of her apple and flips a page of her magazine to reveal an interesting quiz about flirting techniques.

“You know I hate it when you eat and talk to me, Potter.”

“I’m hungry,” Darcy grumbles, setting the apple on the nightstand adjacent to the cot she sits on. “Anyway, it wasn’t her place to do me any favors. She’s only made things worse. That’s all that ever happens.”

Madam Pomfrey gives Darcy a sharp look over a shelf full of potions. “Let it be known that Minerva McGonagall has only your best interests at heart.”

Darcy pulls a face when Madam Pomfrey turns her back, hiding behind her magazine when she turns around again. If the matron is going to let her be bitter for a few minutes longer, she’s going to be as bitter as she can.

“ _You_ wouldn’t have planned something so stupid,” she murmurs.

“No, I wouldn’t have gone about it quite like that,” Madam Pomfrey confesses carefully. “But I agree that your consorting with Cuffe is less than ideal. He may seem like an amiable fellow, but you must remember that he runs Britain’s most popular magical newspaper, and everything you tell him can be used as ammunition against you.”

Darcy scoffs, lowering the magazine from her face so Madam Pomfrey can see her incredulity. “He wouldn’t do that. It’s the Ministry that made him publish those awful things.”

“I think he had more of a hand in those foul articles than he lets on—”

“And yet you’ve no qualms with me being in close contact with a Death Eater—”

“A _former_ Death Eater—”

“That’s what _he_ says,” Darcy frowns, feeling bitter and angry all over again. “Professor Snape is a _liar_. He’s probably plotting my downfall in his office right now.”

“If you want sympathy, Potter, you’ll get none from me,” Madam Pomfrey says, snatching the magazine from Darcy’s hands, rolling it up, and swatting at Darcy’s head playfully. “You should know that by now. And you should be kinder towards Professor Snape. He’s done much for you.”

“You’ve given me plenty of sympathy over the years, I think.” Darcy lays back on the cot, sighing heavily. The sunlight filters prettily through the mullioned windows up high on the stone walls. “And I don’t care what Professor Snape has done for me. It’s all been for himself.”

“Has it?”

“Yes.” She listens to Madam Pomfrey messing about with empty vials. “Who can I trust if I can’t trust Professor Snape?”

“Is this all you’ve been thinking about lately?” Madam Pomfrey asks. Darcy knows that she’s likely bored with all this talk of Snape (just as much as everyone else is).

“No, not all I’ve been thinking about. I’ve always been wondering how Harry got so damn good at Potions.” Darcy sighs again, running a hand through her hair. Another mystery that’s been plaguing her, though perhaps not so important as being mad at Snape. “Hermione won’t say anything, which is odd, because I know she’s mad that Harry’s got the better grade. And I cornered Ron the other day, but I hardly got the words out before Lavender Brown was there. I don’t think she likes me much.”

“Well, maybe with a different teacher, Harry’s been picking up the material easier. Sometimes a different perspective—”

“No, it’s definitely not that. He hardly pays any more attention to Slughorn than Snape.”

“Then maybe he possesses the same natural inclination for Potions that you—”

“No,” Darcy snaps. “ _No_ , no— _I’m_ the naturally good Potioneer. Harry can ride a broomstick and play Quidditch, and I make uncannily good potions. It wouldn’t be fair that he got two good things from mum and dad.”

This time, Madam Pomfrey’s look is of pure sympathy, and Darcy can’t deny it’s nice to have a little sympathy. She approaches Darcy quickly, wiping her hands on the front of her robes and sitting down on the cot next door. “I’m sure there are many things you’re good that Harry . . . isn’t.” She smiles awkwardly, shrugging.

Darcy raises herself to a sitting position, giving Madam Pomfrey an unamused expression. “Like what?” she asks flatly.

“Well . . .” The matron struggles for a moment, but still manages to look cheerful about it. “Like writing.”

“My writing’s shit, ask Cuffe. You have no idea how heavily edited my articles are.”

“You’re good at reciting poetry.”

“Oh, good, because everyone wants to be good at reciting poetry,” Darcy hisses back, flopping onto her back again. “I can play the piano. But I’ll never be a concert pianist.”

“I’ve heard wonderful things about your piano playing.” Madam Pomfrey smiles. “Remus has said you play wonderfully.”

This makes Darcy smile, her heart fluttering. She remembers the first time Lupin had heard her play in the music shop, the look upon his face, the way he’d smiled at her, like the music had brought him more joy than anything ever. _Sirius liked to listen to me play too_ , she thinks. _Even Snape listened when I played for him_. And an idea strikes her so suddenly that it makes her gasp in surprise.

“Professor Flitwick and his choir put on their Christmas show soon, don’t they?”

Madam Pomfrey looks at her, bewildered. “The same as always. Two weeks from now. You know they do it before Christmas break. I had no idea you were interested in it.”

“I’ve actually never attended.” Darcy thinks of it, groaning. She’d sat through fifteen minutes of practice once when Flitwick and his choir had taken over her piano room. “God, it’s so _boring_. Anyway, do you think he’d let me play piano for the concert?”

“Well, I . . . I think Filius just Charms the piano to play by itself. Much easier, isn’t it?”

Darcy rolls her eyes. “I know what he usually does. I was asking do you think he’d let me do it this year?”

“But . . . why?”

Darcy doesn’t answer, throwing her magazine into her bag and standing up quickly. “I should go find him,” she says, mostly to herself than to Madam Pomfrey, slinging her bag over her shoulder. “I’ve got a class next period, anyway.”

“He’s probably in class right now, Potter,” Madam Pomfrey protests, rising with Darcy.

“Then I’ll wait outside until class ends.”

Which is exactly what she does, lingering outside the Charm classroom as Flitwick finishes his lesson with some fourth year kids. When the bell rings, the students file out, chattering excitedly, some paying Darcy no mind at all and others greeting her almost robotically. She slips into the classroom with Flitwick is the last one left, an eraser floating on its own, erasing the notes that cover the blackboard in a small and cramped hand.

Flitwick looks up from his desk when Darcy approaches. He smiles wide, eyes twinkling. “Well isn’t this a surprise!” he grins. “To what do I owe the pleasure, Potter?”

Darcy clears her throat. “I was wondering . . . about your upcoming choir concert,” she begins. “I thought you might need a pianist.”

“Oh,” Flitwick replies, frowning. His smile fades but only slightly. “Well, I typically Charm the piano to play on its own.”

Darcy inhales deeply. “No, I know that,” she says, feeling desperate. “I thought maybe I could play for you this time. Please, Professor, it’s very important to me.”

“May I ask why?”

“Please, Professor, I swear I’ll practice every day if I must.”

Flitwick doesn’t give in so easy when Darcy widens her eyes and puts on her saddest face. “Can you learn new material in two weeks?”

“Yes. I can. I will.”

“You’ll have to practice with us twice a week.”

Darcy swallows another groan. “ _Twice_ a—” She rubs her temples. “Okay, fine. I’ll practice twice a week. Does that mean you’ll let me play?”

Flitwick looks rather eager to be rid of Darcy, it seems. Maybe that’s why he answers, “All right, Potter, I’ll give you the sheet music tonight at dinner.” He eyes her warily. “Are you sure you can learn a new song within two weeks?”

“Yeah, it’s fine. Listen, who usually comes to these things?”

“You would know if you cared to attend one during your . . . well, your ten years at Hogwarts now.”

Darcy flushes furiously, unaware that Flitwick had the gall to be so . . . sarcastic. “All right, I get it,” she retorts coldly. “I’m sorry I never came to one of you choir concerts. Can I do it, then? For real?”

Flitwick sighs and shrugs his shoulders. “I don’t see what’s so urgent about it, but all right.”

“Really? Oh, thank you,” she answers breathlessly, clutching her pounding heart. “Thank you, Professor Flitwick, you've no idea what this means to me.”

Darcy doesn’t run, but walks quickly from the room, wondering if she really can learn a completely new song in two weeks. It doesn’t matter, though. It doesn’t matter at all if she gets every note completely perfect, she thinks to herself.

_If Professor Snape comes to the concert, I’ll know he’s really sorry_ , she tells herself. _I know he’ll come. He must. He always does._


End file.
